Almost Home
by WasWoksa
Summary: The secret is out, and big decisions and mixed feelings accompany the Stetsons as they plot out their future together. But will it end before it begins with one lousy case of mistaken identity?
1. Chapter 1

Blurb: The secret is out, and big decisions and mixed feelings accompany the Stetsons as they plot out their future together. But will it end before it begins with one lousy case of mistaken identity?

Timeline: October, 1987.

Disclaimer: Scarecrow and Mrs. King belongs to Shoot the Moon Productions and Warner Bros. Television. This story is for entertainment purposes only and not for profit. I retain the rights to the story and the original characters. Please do not reproduce, repost, or otherwise meddle with the story or my characters without my permission.

Author's Note: In Nightcrawler, Billy counseled Lee to get married, to leave the Agency, and apply for a more lucrative position in administration at the State Department. Pondering that advice and what might make Lee think it was a good idea is what prompted the writing of this story. This is my first large work of fan fiction. I began it on my birthday and ended it six months later on my anniversary. It is 15 chapters, which I intend to post approximately one per day, with a possible break with Christmas coming and all. Hope you find it an enjoyable read.

Almost Home

Chapter 1

Lee Stetson crossed his living room toward an elaborate, iron-framed mirror on the wall, noting his reflection with some satisfaction as he approached. No denying he looked the part of the competent professional, from his gray cashmere suit and blue pinstripe tie to his meticulously styled brown hair and closely-shaved jaw. His nerves were raw, but as usual, that bit of discomfort was inscrutable in the steely gaze of his hazel eyes.

He placed one hand on either side of the oblong frame, hoisted upward and lifted the mirror off its anchors with a grunt. Gingerly, he placed the piece into a well-padded box on the floor. It was the last item to go in this one, and a good thing. The box was filled to capacity. His leather-clad set of literary classics occupied most of it. He hadn't read any of them, and never really believed he would, but they had made such an elegant appearance on the shelf of his chiffonier. Perhaps their next owner would put them to better use than aesthetic charm.

He smiled to himself, or rather, in spite of himself. One more sweeping glance about the room confirmed the packing was essentially done. The relatively few personally significant items, the keepers, were safely tucked away in the bedroom. Most of the large pieces had been moved to new homes since the sale. Every box slated for removal had been sealed, labeled, and lined against the entryway wall. Every box except this last one, holding the mirror, the books, and a Tibetan ram's horn, another relic of his checkered past.

Experience had soon taught him not to make himself too helpful with the sealing of the boxes. His wife had a way of packing things that eluded Lee. 'Bet she'll fix this one for me too,' he thought wryly as he dragged the weighty load to the wall.

Petty grumbling aside, his satisfaction only deepened at the thought of Amanda. His wife. His partner in all things. He stood and brushed off his hands on his suit, wagging his head at the enormity of the recent changes. It had been a long time coming, and even a year ago he would have thought it impossible. In just three more days he was closing his last lease. In three days he was finally coming home. And all that stood between him and his glorious homecoming were a couple dozen boxes of former possessions, a renewal of vows ceremony courtesy of Reverend Mills, the skeptical faces of two adolescent stepsons, and this morning's dubious appointment.

As he moved toward the kitchen, the aroma of brewed coffee was strong even before he crossed the threshold. He made a beeline for the carafe and filled his steel travel mug. The coffee was oil black, dark Brazilian roast, a personal favorite. He took a quaff off the top and turned to the built-in cutting board. A loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread wrapped neatly in plastic beckoned him. He peeled off the wrap and cut off a generous slab, a nod toward his loving wife's concern for his health. Prior to knowing Amanda, he considered fine black coffee a meal unto itself.

As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard her approach, the near-silent rustle of linen on lace, even before she spoke. He smiled inwardly and waited for her greeting. Then the familiar voice laced with good humor rasped from behind him, "How is it possible you're up before me?"

Lee turned on his heel and flashed his most killer grin at the umber-haired beauty framed in the doorway, bedecked in her long, lace-trimmed damask robe and the telltale glitter of diamond and gold from her left hand. Waking up to the sight of her was a treasure to him, made especially so by the infrequency she was able to stay the night since they had secretly wed eight months ago. Three more days, and that would all change as well. "Well…There's so much to do today, I thought I'd get an early start," he said rather lamely. Truth be told, he hadn't slept a wink in the past three hours. But Amanda didn't need to worry about that.

Her dark, almond eyes fairly danced at him. She stepped closer and nodded at the slice of bread in his hand. "And breakfast? Now that really is new."

He hooked his arm around her back, pulling her in for a tender kiss. "What can I say?" he breathed, closing in on her ear to give it a little nip. "It must be your good influence."

"I'm flattered," she murmured against his cheek, moved back to his mouth, and kissed him again. Then she pulled back and smiled up at him, searched his face, and leveled her conclusion. "You're nervous, Stetson."

A protest formed reflexively on his lips, but he checked it and let out a weary breath instead. Amanda knew Lee better than Lee knew himself. She was right, and no words of his were needed to confirm it. Leaving the bread forgotten on the countertop, he entered into her waiting arms, gratefully pressing her slender form closer still. He _was_ nervous. He was putting their future on the line today, and if he failed, it wasn't just his loss anymore. Those days were gone.

"Don't be nervous, sweetheart. You'll do great," she soothed, tracing her fingers along his hairline. "Billy said they're excited to meet you. He's excited for you. No one is expecting anything but to meet Lee Stetson, and that man is pretty terrific, I think. So just be yourself."

"Only not too much," he quipped, lips curling into a soft smile.

"There's never too much." She smiled back, biting her lower lip and running her hands leisurely up his chest under his suit coat. His breathing quickened at her movements and he felt himself growing pleasantly distracted from his worries and a bit too warm for that coat. As her fingers neared his shoulders, they halted abruptly and she drew herself upright, head cocked to the side, the seductive dance forgotten. "Your holster? Really, Lee, isn't it bad form to wear a gun to an interview?"

His smile faded as quickly as the mood. He knew where this was going. "I am an intelligence agent. I always wear a gun."

"Always?" she asked, with a delicate lift of the brow and a suggestive smirk.

His eyes flickered heavenward. "Amanda," he moaned. "You know what I mean. It gets dangerous out there, even when it shouldn't, and I don't want to go unprepared—"

"Just what are you preparing for? An ambush? I think you might be confusing dangerous with nervous, Lee."

"I am not!" He heard the rising pitch of his voice and made a valiant effort to contain it. More gruffly, he continued, "Anyway, I'll still be working today. I'm meeting you at IFF afterward, right? So it makes sense to—"

"Stop there first and leave it at IFF," she counseled. "You have plenty of time. You're ready to go right now if you need to, and besides, I really doubt security at the State Department will let you in with that thing—"

"Amanda, I'm not—"

"And it would make a poor first impression to get detained at the door by security—"

"But—"

"Yes, I know you wear it most places, and you feel better when you have it, but your only other option is leaving it in the car, and the way you like to leave your keys in the ignition—"

"All right!" he cried. "You're right." Long ago he learned that the best and perhaps only way to cut off Amanda in full throttle argument mode was to agree with her, or at least appear to agree with her. He gathered her hands in his and looked at her from under heavily lidded eyes. "I won't wear it to the interview."

He was rewarded with a dazzling smile. "You mean it?"

"I promise."

The interview was slated for 8:30, and Lee left the apartment plenty early to get there on time, even accounting for a conciliatory stop at the Agency to deposit his firearm. He pressed his way through the morning rush, exasperatingly stop-and-go, in a vehicle built for unfettered speed. He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around what it was he was pursuing today. An administrative position with the Bureau of Intelligence and Research was a lucrative shop, and one that wouldn't have elicited even a spark of interest a few years ago. He was a field agent, a man of action. While the position for which Billy had nominated him wasn't quite pushing papers, Lee was certain it had that element to it. This could only be a mixed blessing, a safer way to earn a living…and, oh yes, certainly a safer way to earn a living.

He grimaced at his unsettling thoughts as much as at the aggravating traffic pattern. He down-shifted the Corvette again and lifted his coffee for another hearty swig. Still, there was Amanda to consider. From now on, he was a family man. His obligation to Amanda and the family ran deeper than any professional alliance. Much deeper. He couldn't go uprooting the entire household every year as had been his custom with his many apartments over the years. He couldn't go placing himself on the active duty roster for overseas assignments whenever the fancy struck. He couldn't pack a pistol to Phillip's high school basketball games or Jamie's science fairs. Or his job interview. Words he himself had spoken echoed in his mind, a warning approaching a taunt: _maybe we've been trying too hard to have it both ways. _Did he really say that?

He glanced at his left hand gripping the wheel, relinquishing his misgivings and marveling instead at the glint of gold on his own finger. That small item represented a much greater adventure than he had seen thus far in his thirty-seven years. Amanda-his unflinching trust in Amanda, his overwhelming love for Amanda, his merging worlds with Amanda-was taking him places he never dreamed he would go. These were places he hadn't known since they were ripped from him in early childhood. Now he was banking on a future hinged on his own willingness to close the door on some things only so he could open it to others. By his own estimation, the trade-off was both advantageous and inevitable.

The Georgetown exit neared and Lee revved the engine impatiently and moved to the shoulder just to swing off the freeway more quickly. He smiled to himself over his minor impetuousness. He hadn't lost all of that just yet. Minutes later, he was pulling up to the two story, federal-style, red brick façade of IFF. He entered the carport, and descended to the underground parking dock. Noting the time, 7:25, he took the elevator to the street level entrance, bypassing the bullpen. He was in no mood to risk getting last minute work from Billy Melrose. He passed the street entrance sentinel, Mrs. Marston, seated behind her desk in the Georgetown Foyer, with hardly an acknowledging nod as he fled up the stairs to the Q Bureau. So it was with some bemusement that he heard the phone ringing behind the Film Library door before he even got the key out of the lock. Billy must be able to smell him coming.

Not today, he decided. He let the call go to voicemail while he shrugged out of his suit coat and unstrapped his leather holster. With a sigh of regret, he deposited his gun in the top left drawer of his desk and locked it in. The holster he draped unceremoniously over his chair. He left the office and trotted back down the stairs, hurrying past Mrs. Marston to the elevator.

"Mr. Stetson," she said pointedly. He turned with a frozen smile on his face, hand still clenched on the doorknob. Both of them stared at the phone in her hands. She held it out without another word.

"Billy?"

She nodded and smiled at him thinly.

Releasing the doorknob with a rueful pout, he stepped up and took the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Scarecrow, I need you in the bullpen."

Raking a hand through his hair, he replied with thinly restrained exasperation, "Billy, I'm not even officially here. Don't you remember the 8:30 interview? You set it up."

Undeterred, his superior growled, "8:00. You've been bumped up. So you'd better get down here quick." He hung up.

Trust Billy to know how to tighten the screws. Lee felt his gut turn spirals. Terrific. Now he had more to do and less time in which to accomplish it. He stepped into the faux closet, ducked under the clothes hangers, and jabbed crossly at the elevator button. Somewhere in the midst of the semi-panic he could still hear Amanda's encouraging words and feel her arms around him, buoying him. It was enough, together with a long visceral breath, to settle his nerves…somewhat.

Down in the underground bullpen, it was Francine, not Billy, who greeted Lee as he came off the elevator. Some days Billy's posh, blond assistant could be gratingly snide, and on a good day she was playfully sardonic, but today she was neither, just business. Her luminous blue eyes were wide and serious. "Hurry up, Lee. Billy needs to brief you before you go." She led the way to Billy's office, stiletto-heeled pumps clicking a staccato cadence on the polished floor.

Billy rose to his feet as soon as Francine and Lee entered the office. "We have trouble," he muttered, crossing in front of the desk. "Francine, come in and close the door. Scarecrow, I know you're in a hurry, but I need you to make a drop before your meeting with Culpepper." He leaned back against the edge of the desk and sat on it.

"A drop? Now?"

With an understanding nod, Billy continued, "I know it's short notice, but last night I received a communique from our surveillance post in the Ural Mountains. A bundle of high level intelligence is due to board a plane for Moscow sometime in the next forty-eight hours, likely from an inside source at the State Department."

Lee and Francine exchanged troubled glances. "Isn't the INR on that?" Lee asked.

"Of course," Francine interjected. "It has to be courtesy of one of their own. They know there's a mole feeding the Soviets classified disarmament information, but they don't know exactly who it is. This message indicates the mole is getting nervous and is calling for a bailout. That means a possible hemorrhage of top secret information from the State, if the mole makes a run for it and goes for broke. It could be devastating to national security." She cast an anxious glance at Billy. "The new problem is that since last night, the INR has asked us not to communicate anything further about the matter over the phone lines. They're afraid the mole is too wired in and will anticipate their next move."

That's where you come in, Lee." Billy picked up a manila, business-size envelope from his desk and handed it to Lee, who quickly inspected its contents. Two thirds of it was encoded gibberish. "While the INR has been probing this leak for months," Billy continued, "and they're close to throwing a net over their mole, so far, they haven't positively identified who it is, or who else may be helping him from the inside. There's a good chance the encrypted information in this feed will expose all of them. The assistant secretary of the INR wants this information passed to their man right away, but I am told he doesn't want to alert the mole at this stage in the game. That's why I'm sending you to make the drop."

Lee closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded. "And since I'm headed to the Bureau anyway…"

"Yes and no," Billy continued. "Your interview is still on with Mr. Culpepper at the Rosslyn office. He just asked that you come to him straight from the drop. Your drop is at an office building across the street, the Farland Building. The INR has a list of four possible suspects, and the assistant secretary wants access to this information kept under tight control until his cryptology specialist reads it. Not even Culpepper can get close to it. This crypto agent is your 8:00 contact. You will be met by a man calling himself 'Alexander.' You're on your way over there anyway, so it won't raise any red flags to scare off their target. Just make the drop and get on with your plans."

"That simple, huh?" Lee replied skeptically, drawing a breath. He tucked the envelope in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

"That simple. Oh, and Scarecrow?" Billy added, with a smile playing under his moustache. "Good luck with your interview. Report back here at eleven hundred hours with your better half and I'll buy the four of us lunch. Now get on out of here."

Lee flashed an appreciative grin over his shoulder at Billy and Francine before he dashed out the door toward the waiting elevator. The time was 7:45. The race was on.

He was crossing the Potomac into Arlington before he remembered he no longer had his gun. Groaning a curse, he dealt the steering wheel an undeserved blow with the heel of his hand. He had less than ten minutes to get to an interview that had morphed into a drop. And he was armed with nothing stronger than his résumé and a cup of Brazilian roast.


	2. Chapter 2

Almost Home

Chapter 2

It was just a shade past 8:00 when Lee entered the Farland Commons address he was given by Billy to make his drop. It was built like most others on that block, two levels, brick, with green awnings over each doorway. He approached the door marked 'Suite 130' and opened the two sets of doors, the first into a tiny entryway, the second into a fluorescent lit corridor with four additional doors. The first one on the right was paneled wood with a small square window. He opened it to a clanging of bells from above. Inside was a spacious lobby with a half-dozen mauve-colored office chairs up against the walls, a short table with a small assortment of news magazines, and a potted ficus standing in a corner. There was a reception window at the back of the room and a door beside it leading to a cramped reception office behind the window. No one was in the room. It was Lee's first indication that this would be no simple drop. Frowning thoughtfully, he approached the window and rang the service bell on the counter once. Then he waited.

He checked his watch and scowled. His contact was not on time, not a good sign. A belated drop raised the inevitable question of whether the drop would be crashed or whether the agent had been detained…or worse. As Lee continued to stand at the counter, he peered into the little office. There was one desk directly under the counter, furnished with the typical assortment of office staples. A stack of blank letterhead paper sat in a wire bin, which identified the resident business as Alexander Life Insurance Ltd. Absently, Lee speculated what the State Department must have offered the real Mr. Alexander to convince him to vacate his premises for the morning. Probably a federal audit.

Against the back wall of the office hung a paint-splattered tarp to a height of around four feet, secured at the top with strips of blue painter's tape. Apparently Mr. Alexander was engaged in a remodeling project. The interior walls of the building couldn't have been thick, because behind the wall with the tarp, Lee could hear the chatter of voices, one low and one high.

He checked his watch again, and with a grunt of exasperation, left the counter and intended to return to the corridor. Perhaps the other occupants of the office building merited some investigation. His hand was on the doorknob when the door swung open in front of him, again jangling the bells on the jamb. He found himself looking down into the face of a young woman, much younger than himself, much shorter, standing directly in front of him. Her eyes widened and she jerked backward a step when she saw him, but she recovered quickly, drew a deep breath, and offered him a timid smile. She had a billow of curly blond hair pulled up at the sides and was dressed neatly in navy slacks and a cable knit sweater with geometric shapes and bold colors. After an awkward hesitation, she seemed to settle on her next course of action and extended her hand politely.

"Good morning. I'm so sorry I missed you coming in. You must be Mister…"

"Stetson," Lee replied warily, accepting the hand.

"Stetson," she repeated, pumping his hand with energy. "Can I help you?"

Lee smiled wryly at the young woman. She seemed harmless enough, and terrifically out of place for a top secret information drop. Perhaps this drop had been called off and he didn't know it. Lee decided to feel out the woman's knowledge of the situation. "I was hoping to speak with Mr. Alexander. Is he in?"

The woman shook her head. Her eyes darted around the room, making fleeting contact with Lee's probing gaze. "He isn't in right now, but I might be able to help you. I'm his secretary." Lee eyed her skeptically and she blushed. "Um, my name is Carolyn." She gave an apologetic shrug, as though she were sorry for her name, or perhaps for her flimsy lie. "I think Mr. Alexander will arrive shortly. Do you want to sit down and wait for him?"

"Ah-h," Lee began, glancing at his watch again. "Actually, I'm in a hurry. Maybe I'll come back another time." Intuition was telling him this drop was more than a bust. The girl might be as harmless as she seemed, but whoever must have sent her in as his feeler had Lee increasingly on edge. Where was his drop man?

He reached for the doorknob, but Carolyn stood her ground in the doorway, blocking his exit. Her eyes were round, her hands fidgeting together in front of her. By all appearances, her desire to dash out of the room exceeded her desire to detain Lee, but she rooted herself where she was. Her voice became urgent. "Mr. Stetson, wait. Isn't there anything I can do to help? I'm sure Mr. Alexander doesn't want you to have to make another trip. Maybe, if it's just a message, I could take it for him…" She trailed off and looked at him intently, expectantly, it seemed.

That did it. Suspicion hardened Lee's features and he studied the woman now with heightened alertness. She wasn't an agent, but she was more than a civilian bystander. Her demeanor still exuded innocent earnestness, but her expectation defied protocol. No affiliate of the Bureau of Intelligence and Research would suggest another intelligence agent leave a classified letter with an unauthorized recipient, and Carolyn clearly anticipated Lee had a letter to deliver. The woman was hiding something, or someone.

As if she read his thoughts, she hurried across the room to the door next to the reception window, pulled it open and darted inside. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Stetson," she stammered, appearing in the window. "Of course you don't want…Just wait right here. If he's still in the building I can page him on my phone." Visibly flustered, Carolyn picked up the receiver, fumbling twice before she managed to balance it on her shoulder. She punched some numbers on the set with trembling fingers. Lee turned and watched her wordlessly. She looked up from the desk, dark blue eyes in a face now drawn with anxiety, but she was not looking at Lee. Rather, her eyes were locked on a place somewhere past him, toward the corridor entrance. She slowly set down the receiver.

Lee turned to peer over his shoulder in time to hear the bells jangling once again as a sandy-haired businessman not much older than Carolyn stepped into the room. He was tall and lean, with boyish facial features and close-cropped hair, well dressed in a suit and tie, and carried a briefcase in one hand, and a pistol in the other. To Carolyn, he said sharply, "It's time to go."

Lee lifted his chin knowingly. The other shoe had dropped. Without so much as a blink, he plastered on his best lazy grin and casually leaned against the reception counter. Gesturing toward the gun, he drawled, "Does this method get you much business, Mr. Alexander?"

"I'm not Alexander, and you know it. Now shut up and give me the letter," the man spat back. His pistol was trained on Lee, and he remained at a comfortable distance, directly in front of the door.

"What letter?"

The gun shook in his hand. "I'm not playing the game anymore. I know who you are. Just hand it over and get out of here."

Lee abandoned leaning on the counter and stood erect, but made no other move toward extracting the message. He set his jaw and smiled tightly. "You know me? Well, then let's make the introduction complete. You are…?"

"Someone who should have shot you by now." His eyes flickered toward Carolyn and returned to watch Lee again as Lee begin to make a move toward his jacket. "Slowly," the gunman barked. "And drop your gun right here." He indicated a spot on the floor between them with the toe of his shoe.

Feeling strangely optimistic for not having a firearm, Lee held open both sides of his jacket. Maybe Amanda's tenacity would prove fortunate. It wouldn't be the first time. "Hey, man, I'm unarmed. I'm just here for an 8:00 meeting with Mr. Alexander." He casually strode forward one step, then another. "It's about a job," he continued, removing his tri-folded résumé from the same inside pocket as the drop letter. "See?" He extended the papers toward the man with a smug smile.

The man hesitated, confused. He exchanged glances with Carolyn, who still stood wide-eyed and mute behind the counter, hands tightly gripping the back of the desk chair. He took the document from Lee's outstretched hand. "It _is_ a résumé," he said wonderingly as he inspected it.

That distraction was all Lee needed. In one fluid motion, his left leg swiped upward and cleanly kicked the gun from his assailant's grip. Then Lee descended on him, fists flying. In the back of his mind, he was aware the woman was with the gunman, and he kept a mental tab on the location of the errant gun so it wouldn't wind up in her hands. Although he couldn't deny she didn't seem the type to know what to do with a gun even if it were placed in her hands for her.

Lee's adversary turned out to be more evenly matched to Lee's hand-to-hand combat skills than he would have wished. The man recovered almost instantly from his surprise at being disarmed, and deflected Lee's first left hook, countering with a straight to his jaw that send Lee reeling. He leapt onto Lee in a tackle, knocking him to the floor, and the two grappled there, alternately swinging punches and reaching for the gun, which had skittered across the floor under a chair. Lee's opponent stood up again, taking the time to bellow at the woman, "Get out, Carolyn!" She froze in shocked horror for an instant before she burst through the reception office door, bypassing the gun entirely, and ran out the lobby door, bells ringing tumultuously in her wake.

Lee and his opponent held each other off, staggering toward the reception window, where Lee ended up on the countertop with the unknown man on top of him, pinning him. An elbow came shooting down toward his gut. Lee twisted, narrowly missing the elbow, and braced his foot against the man's groin, effectively launching him away. It didn't quite achieve the desired effect. The man fell backwards, crab-walked to the chair and gained control of the gun again.

As the barrel came sweeping up in his direction, Lee pulled to an immediate halt, palms open, facing outward, bracing himself for the inescapable impact of bullet to flesh. "Oh come on, man!" he cried in a last ditch attempt to diffuse his assailant. "Stop while you're ahead. You haven't killed anyone yet." He mentally cursed himself for allowing the man to regain his weapon. It had been known to happen from time to time, and Lee profoundly detested the situation every time.

Against every reasonable expectation, the man held his fire. With gun and eyes fixed on Lee, he instead reached backward blindly and picked up the briefcase he had dropped at the beginning of their fight, clutching it tightly against his chest. He stumbled to his feet, eyes wild. "You want to end it? Fine. The letter for your life," he demanded in a shaking voice, breathing hard.

Lee had faced off against many a gunman in his work. This one would be sealed in his memory for one reason only. Humanity glistened in his eyes, the haunted look of a man horrified by his own violence. They lacked the coldness of most men long hardened by this covert game to the death called espionage that Lee knew and played so well. Perhaps the young man had never killed someone before. Perhaps he had and didn't want to repeat the experience. But at that moment, Lee knew this man did not want to shoot him.

Slowly, Lee reached back into his jacket for the letter, contemplating how to buy himself more time. "Then come and get it, if it's worth that much to you…"

A muffled cry from Carolyn, outside in the adjoining corridor, interrupted them. "Lenny, the ambulance is here!" she screamed, fear evident in the rising inflection of her voice.

To Lee's surprise, the man's interest in the letter, now held in Lee's outstretched hand, vanished. He swore an oath and his face went pale as he reeled away from Lee toward the corridor, jerking the door open as he reached it.

"What's going on?" Lee demanded with a scowl.

At the threshold, the gunman turned around once more and paused, hand gripping the door frame, eyes locked with Lee. He let out a breath and shook his head. "It's too late now. Just get out of here." There was resignation in his voice. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "I'll give you a five-count." And he dashed out the door and was gone.

For one frozen moment, Lee could only gape after him in dismay. A five count? He was talking about a bomb. A bomb! He sprang to his feet and made a sprint toward the exit, recalling as he ran the three separate doors to maneuver between himself and the street outside. No time. He needed a more direct route. Without stopping, he adjusted his course and seized the closest lobby chair with both hands, swinging it into the front picture window, launching it outdoors. Panes of glass shattered in a shimmering torrent of jagged confetti. He instantly followed suit. Shoulder first, head tucked, he lunged through the mangled blinds and the fragments of broken glass, and then the world stopped.

He felt the blast before he heard it. It hit him like a wall, the repercussion throwing him bodily against the pavement outside, knocking him breathless. He could hear more shattering glass and a cascading tumble of brick and mortar. Reacting on pure instinct, he wrapped his arms around his head and curled into a ball. A burst of pain erupted from somewhere between his back and his right shoulder, and for a moment, he was flying—no, falling—and he was in another place, a place of hazy memories of a dark-haired woman with a sweet smile and a lilting British accent calling his name, calling him home. A searing wave of heat intruded on the vision, descended on him, along with smoke, thick and acrid. It filled his lungs, choking him, but he couldn't move. His last thought, as oblivion overtook him, was whether this, perhaps, is what dying feels like.

* * *

Thick smoke was pouring out the blown-out door and windows of the bombed Suite 130, and part of the upper floor lay in a heap of rubble atop the ground floor like a fallen soufflé. Into the mess charged a pair of paramedics, wearing blue jumpers and gas masks, and dragging along a wheeled stretcher.

"Where is Albertson? Did he not come out?" shouted the younger man, the one called Markin, who pushed the stretcher from behind.

Lagunov's deep voice was a muffled bark behind his mask. "Damned smoke. Get closer. I did not see him coming out," he directed, leading the effort from in front of the stretcher. They crossed the street, entering into the blue-black haze, and had drawn near to what used to be the outer door of the suite, when Lagunov's boot struck against a stationary figure on the ground. "Here!" he cried, bending over the soot-stained man lying face down at his feet. He knelt down to inspect the man, pulling a substantial chunk of building rubble off of him. "He is breathing. Help me get him up here and strap him down. Keep an eye out for the briefcase."

They lowered the drop frame and together lifted the man and swung him onto the bed. "Damned hotshot," Lagunov swore to no one in particular as he arranged the flaccid arms of his patient straight down at his sides. "Who told you to use C-4? We wanted a little smoke and noise, not a demolition. Every news crew in the city is going to be here in…" As the two men moved to stabilize the injured man's neck with a foam and plastic brace, Lagunov trailed off his rant. He and Markin's eyes met and they stopped, reaching a shared conclusion simultaneously.

"This is not—"Markin began.

Lagunov nodded. "I see it. Perhaps this is the agent he was intercepting." He frowned with the puzzle of a tightly arranged mission gone awry. "But if all went according to plan, this one should have a bullet."

"What do we do?" Markin demanded, gesturing toward the unmoving man before them. "He is not Albertson. Where is Albertson?"

Lagunov stared into the rubble, pondering the chaos. "No time," he muttered to himself.

"What about the briefcase? Should we keep looking for it?"

"Keep moving," Lagunov decided, giving a jerk of his head in the indicated direction. "If Albertson is still inside, he may be lost. This one is alive. If we do not find Albertson now at least we have something to trade for him if his Bureau finds him first." He deftly applied an oxygen mask to his patient while building up momentum with the stretcher toward their waiting ambulance. "And if Albertson is dead, we have something to trade for another day, eh? I will get a needle in him when we are inside."

Markin looked at his partner quizzically. "Are you missing your former work as a medic, Yevgeny? Why do you need it?"

The man sniffed smugly. "Can you not see the oxygen is waking him up? I will give him something to keep him still until we get him to Sadovsky."

As they reached the ambulance, Markin threw open the rear doors and the two loaded the stretcher inside. In minutes, they were pulling away from the wrecked building, just one of several emergency vehicles, sirens wailing, responding to the scene of a disaster.


	3. Chapter 3

Almost Home

Chapter 3

"Good morning, Mrs. Marston," Amanda chirped as she flitted inside the street entrance of IFF, closing the door behind her with a firm swing of her hip. She rarely came to work empty-handed, and today was no exception. She sported a plastic container full of her homemade oatmeal cookies and a bouquet of golden asters and mums to freshen the wilted arrangement in the Q Bureau. The cookies were a cheery nod toward simpler days earlier in her career with IFF, when she enjoyed the luxury of time for baking. They were nothing fancy, but she could proudly vouch for their flavor and texture. "Would you like a cookie? You get first pick," she added enticingly, poised to pop the lid off her container.

Mrs. Marston was never outwardly friendly, but even she had difficulty maintaining indifference toward Amanda's brand of hospitality. The choice of cookie was no accident, either. Amanda knew the stern door guardian was powerless against the appeal of oatmeal cookies. Indeed, with a smile of concession, she reached in and took two.

"Do you know if Mr. Melrose got a hold of Mr. Stetson?" Amanda continued, pressing the lid back down and moving toward the stairs. "He called the apartment, but Lee had left already." This last admission she delivered with a surreptitious averting of the eyes. Coming up on three weeks since she and Lee had revealed their secret marriage, she still felt awkward speaking openly at The Agency of things that demonstrated their domestic conjugality. Probably it was the consequence of keeping the secret for so many months. Old habits die hard.

"He did, Mrs. Stetson," Mrs. Marston replied. "About an hour ago."

Upon being informed of their true state of affairs, Mrs. Marston, always practical, had only wanted to know whether Amanda was now "Mrs. Stetson," or whether she would remain "Mrs. King." Amanda had thought perhaps keeping the King surname was better for work, but Lee was adamant that she should wear the Stetson title. After all, if they were going to blow the secret, they might as well go all the way with it. Amanda suspected, however, that lingering insecurity over her past life with Joe King might have more than a little to do with his insistence.

She ascended the stairs and opened the film library door, balancing the cookie container on her thigh as she worked the lock. Inside, the room was still and lit only by the morning sun streaming in through the windows. The office she shared with Lee was peaceful, an orderly little slice of home. It contained the modern artwork and solid mahogany furnishings Lee enjoyed, with the flowers and potted plants and the woven area rug Amanda added. In addition, it sported the usual Agency items, the secure phone line and computer on Lee's desk, the large world map hung on the wall behind Amanda's desk, and the caster-wheeled bulletin board for pinning up pieces of the latest puzzle to unravel.

Amanda placed the cookies on her desk, discarded the wilted flowers and replaced them with the new. She noted with a soft smile Lee's leather shoulder holster, hanging askew off the back of his chair. Tenderly, she plucked it up, folded it, and placed it on his desk. With a sigh of contentment, she sat down at her desk and took up the case file she had been processing the night before.

Since the completion of her level two operative training loomed near, she was receiving increasing numbers of assignments independent of Lee. They were mainly, as with her current case, background checks and fact-finding, lots of phone interviews and computer work, and nothing particularly dangerous. Level three training was needed before she could be assigned active field work on her own, and she and Lee had decided together to postpone that training indefinitely.

Three weeks had made a world of difference. The disclosure of their marriage had set in motion a whole series of events, culminating in Amanda's reluctant abandonment of further operative training and Lee's equally skeptical pursuit of an administrative career path.

It had started the morning Amanda padded down the stairs to see the boys off before school and caught the end of one of their many arguments.

"Hurry up, slacker. The bus is here," Phillip groused.

Then Jamie's more soprano voice retorted, "I'm coming. I'm coming. It's not my fault you take an hour in the bathroom every morning. I hardly had time for my shower. I should go first."

"No way, squirt. I'm older."

"So?"

"So, I stink more."

Amanda had stopped near the foot of the stairs, muffling a laugh and shamelessly eavesdropping.

Then Phillip added, "If you think it's bad now, just wait till Mom marries Lee. We'll need a bigger house!"

Jamie had casually echoed his agreement, and Amanda had inwardly decided the time was ripe to broach the subject with Lee again.

He picked her up for work, as he did most mornings, and she used the time in the car to tell her captive audience what the boys had said.

"I think it's time to let everybody know, Lee. Mother and the boys are expecting it. Billy keeps referring to me as your better half, and I don't think he's joking. I doubt we're fooling anyone at the Agency anymore."

He shot a sidelong glance at her and smiled wryly. "You mean Francine hasn't been warning you away from me lately?"

She tried to pout, but broke into a grin instead. "Not lately. Either she's decided you're fully reformed, or I'm fully corrupted. I can't decide which."

They shared a laugh, and then Lee became serious. "But what about our enemies? Amanda, it's still so…"

"Dangerous," Amanda finished with him. "I know that, sweetheart. But I don't see how living in two separate locations is helping the security situation any. And other agents are married and still working in the field—"

Lee opened his mouth to protest, but found his thought intercepted.

"-even in our unit—"

"But they—"

"-even with kids," she continued, anticipating all his reservations. She knew them by heart. "There's Duffy, and Nefstead, and Porterman, and even Billy. We're not all that unique." She stopped and studied his face. He was somber, but he wasn't arguing anymore. She waited a while, giving him time to fully consider what she had said thus far. She waited, gathering the courage to deal him her best reason yet.

Neither of them spoke about it again until Lee was parked in the IFF underground lot. Then he turned to her and said, "So how do you want to do this? Are we going to plan something to ease into it, maybe shoot for a date?"

Amanda sighed, recognizing the question for what it was, a delay tactic. Beating back the frustration that made her want to shake him, she instead took his hand and laced their fingers. "Lee," she said softly, closing her other hand on top of his and studying the meshing of their hands, hers smooth and fair, his rugged and scarred. "I don't think the danger is going to go away just because we waited longer. Aren't you tired of living apart? Isn't it time to come home?" She waited, barely breathing, praying for his assent based on this appeal alone.

He was silent for a long time before he finally swallowed and raised his eyes to meet hers. He nodded. Amanda closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

* * *

"Amanda?"

She blinked and turned to her left to see Francine, her smooth brow furrowed with concern, standing in the open doorway. "Hm? Sorry, Francine. I guess you caught me daydreaming." She smiled apologetically and closed her file folder. "Can I help you find something in the vault? Go ahead and take a cookie, if you want. They're not chocolate, but—"

"No!" Francine exclaimed, eyes traveling nervously over the room. She flashed an uncertain smile at Amanda. "I mean, not now. Billy needs you downstairs, right away."

Amanda regarded Francine curiously, but rose quickly to her feet. "Really? I hope he didn't send you all the way up here for that. He could have just called." She circled around the desk and joined Francine at the door. "Francine?" The woman was looking everywhere but at Amanda. "Francine?" she repeated, with a puzzled smile. Amanda placed a hand on her colleague's arm. "Is something wrong?"

For just a moment, Francine met Amanda's eyes with an expression of undisguised turmoil, but true to her operative training, she instantly buried it behind a brusque façade, and her lips thinned grimly. "Let's just go to Billy and he'll fill you in," she intoned crisply, moving away from Amanda's hand. She made one more half-hearted attempt at a smile and led the way downstairs.

When they stepped off the elevator into the bullpen, Amanda immediately felt a charge in the air. There was a quality of tension and suppressed energy throughout the room, agents murmuring, hurrying to and from the central communications console. A news broadcast playing on the overhead priority screen seemed to be occupying everyone's attention, something about a bombing in the metropolitan area. Most alarmingly, Billy Melrose's office door was shut and the blinds were closed at a time he would normally be briefing his teams in an open forum. Something was very wrong.

Francine gave Billy's door a tentative knock before opening it a crack. Inside, Billy was on the phone, pacing the room, and he was most unhappy.

"No, don't take my message. I'll wait…Is that right? Then you tell Culpepper I'll see him in person in ten minutes…No? Then remind him I was assured this was a status green drop, and my agent was assured this was a status green drop. Do you think I sent him over because he's expendable?! I don't know what the hell happened, but I want some answers, now!" He turned toward the door and saw Francine with Amanda behind her and motioned them in. Francine gently pushed the door shut and Billy held the phone out to her. "Take this," he said in a low voice, but his eyes were on Amanda.

It seemed as though time stood still, and Amanda's breath caught in her throat at the look on Billy's face. She had seen the look before. He was their capable section chief, whom she had known for four years. Even in the midst of incredible pressure and the ugliest of internal adversity, she watched him expertly maintain such a steady hand over the Agency's environment. But now the deep creases around his brow, the rigid set of his mouth, and the fine beads of sweat gathering on his face were betraying his feelings. Something terrible was happening. Amanda felt herself sinking numbly onto the nearest chair.

"Amanda," he said kindly, walking to within a few paces of her.

She gave a slight nod of the head and held Billy's gaze with barely a flinch. Often over the years she had pondered the possibility of a moment like this, never allowing the idea to consume her, but never deceiving herself into believing she and her husband were exempt. Softly she answered, "Is he dead?"

Billy dropped heavily into a chair across from her, leaning forward, hands on his knees, deciding his answer. He grimaced. "I really don't know, Amanda. I hope not. All I know at this time is he's missing." He paused to watch Amanda's reaction. Her face betrayed nothing of her feelings, and she made no reply. He continued. "I sent him on a drop, a very safe drop. It should have been ten seconds, in and out."

"A status green," Amanda said, recalling Billy's phone conversation.

"Right," he confirmed. He rubbed his eyes and stood up again, automatically resuming his pacing. He stopped briefly and turned his attention to Francine as she lowered the phone back onto its cradle. "Did we get anywhere?"

Francine shook her head and lowered her eyes uncomfortably. "They're just as surprised as we are, and they don't seem to know much more."

"Dammit," he spat, discharging more frustration by launching back into more vigorous pacing.

Amanda followed him with her eyes. "Sir," she said when he reached his desk and turned for another lap down the length of the room. "What happened?"

Billy paused in his pacing and released a long, weary breath. "There was a bomb, C-4 plastique. It blew out the front of the building he was in. Emergency workers have put out the fire. They're searching the debris, and so far they're coming up empty. Maybe he got clear." He stopped. His words sounded hollow even to himself, and he didn't miss the corresponding wince from Francine. In a lower voice, he continued, "But his car is still in the public parking lot over there. And he hasn't called in a status report. Right now I'm waiting to hear something from the rescue workers when the fires go out enough for them to sift through the debris. That's everything I know, Amanda. I'm sorry."

For a while, she pondered this information in silence. The muffled din from the bullpen was all that disrupted the stillness. Francine looked questioningly toward Billy, but his attention was on Amanda, who was gazing thoughtfully at her hands in her lap. He waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his and rose to her feet. She addressed Billy evenly. "All right, what can I do?"

Billy regarded her sternly. "That depends. I need to know how you're going to play this. Will you be Scarecrow's partner, or Lee's wife? It's your call."

"Scarecrow's partner," she said firmly.

Billy's coal black eyes shone at her. "Very well. Francine, you will team up with Agent Amanda Stetson to investigate this matter. Amanda, I want you to see Leatherneck and requisition a firearm."

"Yes, sir."

"You two get started at the Farland Building and interview every witness you can get your hands on. There's a State Department contact on the scene. His name is Sheehan. Talk to him. And call in a status report at…" He paused to glance at the wall clock. "Fourteen-hundred hours." He looked from Amanda to Francine and smiled tightly. "Good luck, people. Now, go get our man."


	4. Chapter 4

Almost Home

Chapter 4

Until she saw the building, Amanda had been carried along by a tolerable combination of adrenaline and shock. From the moment Billy had disclosed the crisis, to his inquiry of her role in resolving it, to procuring a firearm she never hoped to use, to enduring the near silent ride in Francine's car to the Rosslyn district of Arlington, she had stonewalled her feelings in a feat worthy of Scarecrow himself. But the sight of the building nearly crumbled her resolve. The entire street-side face of it was a crumpled mass of shattered brick and stone, with remnants lying in the street and atop the cars parked there. Black smoke still wafted from within the mess, leaving the air tinged with the sickly sweet odor of charred wood and melted plastic. Emergency workers were delving through the remains of the front offices, but they weren't going to clear out the mess and anyone who might have been caught in it for many hours.

"Oh, my…gosh…" she whispered, fighting an accompanying wave of nausea. Such an inopportune time for that. She swallowed hard.

"Amanda," Francine hissed from next to her in the car. "Stay here. I'm going to—"

"No," Amanda retorted. Her eyes locked on Francine's and she dropped a restraining hand on her arm. "This is one time I am definitely not staying in the car."

An impending argument was cut short by the approach of a man, stocky in build, wearing a well-cut blue suit. He was weaving his way through building debris and people, directly toward Francine's open window.

"Who is it?" Amanda asked, watching him.

Francine pursed her lips and turned to reach into her handbag lying next to her. "Get out your badge, Amanda. It's another fed."

"Sheehan," Amanda murmured, quickly complying with Francine's direction.

The State Department agent reached the car with his badge already fixed in his palm, held aloft for the women to see. "Hold it," he growled, bending down to eye level. "You're not the press, are you?"

With a quirk of the lip, Francine snapped, "Do you see a camera crew anywhere? We're Agency. What do you have?"

The man afforded a passing glance at their I.D.s and raked a hand through his wiry, grizzled hair. "I should have known. Well, you're here just in time. The medics just found a body. Don't know whose yet. Could be ours, could be yours. Come on." And he turned on his heel and began trekking back the way he had come.

Francine blanched and turned to Amanda, only to find her partner had already darted out the passenger door and was trotting up the street after Sheehan. The State agent led them around the building to the rear entrance, which opened to an alley. From behind, the building appeared strangely intact. It was eerie. It reminded Amanda of news reports she had read of tornados that peeled the roof and walls away from a home but left the interior furniture virtually untouched.

A uniformed police officer stood sentry at the door. Sheehan flashed his badge again. "More feds," he muttered, and the officer replied with a grunt of his own and let the three of them pass.

Immediately inside was a maintenance closet to the left with the door propped open, allowing additional light into the building from its window. Partway down the dim corridor lay a mass of rubble extending to the ceiling where the upper floor had collapsed to the office space below. Just in front of the blockage lay a gurney low to the ground, with two paramedics standing in the shadows nearby, waiting on the coroner. A thin blue blanket shrouded the still form on the bed.

Sheehan lifted his chin to the first paramedic to make eye contact. "We're all here. Let's see what you've got."

The paramedics waited until the two women had reached the gurney, and then the man Sheehan had addressed folded the blanket over to reveal a face. Amanda stared blankly. She had never seen the man before in her life. He was older than Lee, with a distinctively chiseled jaw speckled heavily with stubble. He appeared unscathed, at least from the neck up.

"What killed him?" Amanda asked quietly, unable to look away from the lifeless body.

"That's the peculiar thing," the paramedic replied. "It wasn't the bomb. This guy's been shot." Three heads turned abruptly to look at the medic with surprise. "Yeah," he confirmed, "right through the chest. Must have happened just before the bombing. That puts an interesting twist on it."

Francine cleared her throat and looked at Sheehan. "He's not anyone we know. How about you?"

Amanda knew the answer before he spoke. She saw it in the troubled look on his face that had been so casual just moments ago. "Yes," he said slowly. He stood erect and walked away a few paces. "I'll have to call this in to my superior."

"Who is he?" Francine pressed.

"It's Jim," Sheehan said with a grimace. He glanced at Francine and Amanda and remembered to elaborate. "James Albertson. I know him from cryptology. He was a helluva guy, a good agent. One of the best." He finished his epithet and pushed open the door, shaking his head regretfully as he stepped back outside into the morning sun.

* * *

Claiming the role of lead agent, Francine placed the status call to Billy that afternoon. They were at the State Department building not far from the explosion for the second time that day, after a chase for information that had yielded nothing but dead ends.

Francine's feet hurt. She would sooner jaywalk naked down Pennsylvania Avenue than admit it, but her stunning designer heels were killing her. This pavement pounding brand of fieldwork was not compatible with Prada, and Amanda's arch-supported department store flats that Francine so liked to ridicule in her mind's eye were now serving as nothing but added insult. She alternated standing on one foot and then the other as she relayed to Billy the scant information she had to give.

"We talked to the liaison officer at the INR and all he would say is the same thing Culpepper told us," she complained.

"Virtually nothing," Billy confirmed.

"He said James Albertson is part of an internal investigation and they do not want our assistance." She wrinkled her nose with disgust at the thought of the condescending manner the words had been spoken to her and added in mimicry, "They sympathize with our predicament, but they cannot provide at this time any information we would find helpful."

On his end, Billy sighed before he made reply. "How's Amanda holding up?"

Francine glanced out the office window in front of her to where the other woman stood some distance away, deep in conversation with a State Department employee from the adjacent cryptology department. Then she looked around and reached for a nearby office chair, pulled it closer, and plopped down on it. "I'm afraid for her, Billy. She assumes she's still going to find Lee alive. She's in denial."

With an edge, Billy retorted, "It's called hope, Francine, and it's not a bad thing to have."

"But if you had seen—"

"Don't be too quick to pronounce him, Francine. He's come through tighter scrapes than this. Maybe Amanda's on to something. Anyway, by tomorrow I'm sure we'll all know one way or the other."

A heavy silence hung in the air while Francine propped her forehead on her hand, biting hard on her lip and blinking away a rare display of tears. Nothing gave her real pain in her work like keeping friends. Though she generally avoided such bother, at least on any deep level, Lee was different. He was such a part of her personal and professional history, she could almost consider him family. Well, maybe family in a rather dysfunctional sort of way.

Billy waited a while before conceding to a point. "You can let Amanda explore all the avenues out there. It's only been a matter of hours so far. Just don't let her get too involved in the Albertson deal. I have received advice from more than one quarter today to leave that to the INR, so I don't want you two stepping on any State Department toes. What about the police report? Witnesses?"

Francine drew a deep breath and refocused on the job at hand. "Other than James Albertson and the gunshot, everything is looking like you'd expect. We noticed just one irregularity in the witness accounts."

"Which is?"

"Two people from an upstairs apartment next door were transported to an area hospital after being evacuated by the fire department. Witness reports agree as far as seeing the paramedics and the two victims. One witness initially said she thought there were paramedics assisting someone before the fire department arrived at the scene, but on further questioning, she retracted and admitted she could have been mistaken. We've checked all the area hospitals, and no one has passed through the emergency rooms matching Lee's description."

There was momentary silence on the line before Billy responded. "For the record, I never asked you this, and you never answered. What have you found out about Albertson? Maybe there's some idea of who might have shot him. Maybe Albertson was the mole and Lee was the shooter."

"No," Francine said. "Lee wasn't even armed."

"What? Why not?"

Francine shot another glance toward Amanda, who had moved with her companion toward a distant wall of the room. He was pointing out something among a series of framed photographs and commendations hung there. "Amanda said he left his gun at the Agency. He was prepared for an interview. He didn't think he needed a gun."

Another sigh. "I see. What's your next move?"

Francine rose to stand and ignored the screams from her blistered feet. "I'm coming in. I think we've done all we can until that building gets cleared out."

When Francine left the auxiliary office, she found Amanda more animated than she had seen her all morning.

"I may have something to go on, Francine," she practically chortled. "See, Don Golding—that cryptology specialist over there-and I were talking about Lee and the bombing, and he agrees with me that the witness who saw paramedics taking someone before the fire department came might be a break in this."

"The witness couldn't even swear to that," Francine began, but found herself cut off by the momentum of Amanda's excitement.

"And then there's Galen Pratt," she continued. "You see, he called in sick today, which is the only unusual movement in the cryptology unit in the last twenty-four hours, other than Mr. Albertson getting assigned the drop last night." She grimaced. "And getting shot today."

Mystified, Francine echoed, "Galen Pratt?"

"He and Mr. Albertson were very close. Galen is a really bright young man who got his job as a cryptology clerk earlier this year because Mr. Albertson vouched for him. There's a picture on the wall right over there of Galen. He's one of the 1986 rookies. Apparently, Mr. Albertson gave him rides to work almost every day."

Francine looked briefly in the indicated direction, but quickly turned back to Amanda. "Why do we care about Pratt?"

Amanda shook her head sadly. "Galen doesn't even know about Mr. Albertson yet, since he was off sick today." She looked at Francine with a glint in her brown eyes. "He should be informed, since they were such good friends. And Don Golding gave me this address…" She held up a scrap of paper.

"Amanda, you want to see a guy just because he called in sick today? Why? Just because he knew Albertson?"

"They worked together, they were friends, they carpooled. Maybe he knows something that could tell us what happened with the drop with Lee." Her face was bright with hope and there was a determined set to her jaw.

Francine lowered her eyes. "We can't do this, Amanda."

"But this might be the—"

"Amanda!" Francine said sharply, stopping her mid-thought. She looked up again, grim. "We can't investigate Albertson. We have no authority."

Amanda looked at her and said nothing.

"The witness report was shaky at best. We're not allowed to get involved in anything having to do with Albertson. I'm ready to get back to the Agency and wait to hear from Sheehan. He's still at the Farland Building and he's going to call as soon as anything turns up. Let's just get back and you can run it by Billy and—"

"You've already decided Lee is dead, haven't you?" There was a dangerous edge to Amanda's voice now. This time, Francine fell silent. Amanda pinned her with a glare before she turned away and crossed the floor to the elevator. She pressed the down button and waited, lips tight and face sullen.

Slowly, Francine trailed after her, stopping a short distance behind her. Quietly, she said, "I'm sorry, Amanda. Maybe I wish I could share your optimism, but I don't. I can't hope for things against logic. I can't will the things I want into being true. I've been doing this work for too long."

Amanda's shoulders slumped. But when she turned around, her expression was softened, not with defeat, but with compassion. "I'm not willing anything, Francine. I'm just not giving Lee up for dead until I see it with my own eyes." She paused as the elevator doors opened and she stepped aside to let the occupants out. The two women entered the compartment together, and Amanda pressed the ground floor button and continued. "I know Lee has been your friend for a long time, and I know you've worked in this business a lot longer than I have. But I am _married_ to a field agent, Francine. That's where I have experience and you don't. I didn't marry Lee thinking it was ever going to be easy. But you can't make a marriage in this business work if you jump to the worst conclusion every time something goes wrong. I don't think any marriage would survive that way."

They both drifted into silence for a while. Then, as the elevator doors opened, Francine said with a self-deprecating laugh, "I used to wonder what in the world a man like Lee Stetson ever saw in an ordinary suburban homemaker." She met Amanda's questioning stare and shrugged ironically, her smile fading. "That was just your cover all along, wasn't it?"

The sun was still shining brightly when they left the building and joined the sidewalk traffic. Not far in the distance, the blown out Farland Building had stopped emitting smoke, but emergency workers and their trucks were still present, clearing out the debris. Amanda stopped and watched their progress attentively, her face inscrutable.

"Hey, I'm parked over here," Francine called, preparing to cross the street.

Amanda shook her head. "Go on back without me," she said. She smiled at Francine's expression of concern. "I have Lee's spare key. I think I'll go ahead and bring his car back home. I still have to speak with Mother about…well, I have to talk to my mother," she said, wilting.

"You'll be okay?" Francine asked, her blue eyes earnest.

Amanda nodded. "I'll check in later. Right now, I probably should spend some time with my family."

The silver Corvette was not difficult to find, parked close to the street in the public lot next to the State Department building. Amanda got in, belted up, and turned the key in the ignition. For one moment, her eyes fell on the empty coffee mug in the drink holder, still smelling faintly of Brazilian roast, and a surge of emotion overtook her before she could stop it. She unclicked the seat belt and threw open the door, hanging her head out to throw up on the pavement while a stream of tears ran down her face.

It took twenty minutes and some conveniently handy saltine crackers to recover her emotional and physical equilibrium and start up the car again. She pulled onto the highway and headed across the bridge, away from Arlington. She was going home, but she was making just one little stop first.

On a street lined with rows of nondescript apartment buildings on the northeast end of the city, she parked the Corvette on the street and checked the scrap of paper on the seat beside her. Then she slung her purse over her shoulder and slid out of the car. She entered the foyer of one particular building and stood beside a wall of mailbox doors. One of them was labeled 'G. Pratt.' She noted the number and ascended the stairs. She found the second floor apartment and stood at the door, collecting her thoughts before landing three solid raps on it. At first, there was no answer. She looked up at the partially burnt-out light fixture dangling from the ceiling. Feeling her courage swell, she stood more upright and rapped again. "Is anyone here?" she called.

She heard movement on the other side of the door. After a moment, it opened just a crack. "Who is it?" asked a soft, female voice.

"I'm an agent with the federal government," she said, pulling her badge from her purse. "I need to speak with Galen Pratt."

The door closed, and then opened again, wide, revealing a small-framed young girl with curly blond hair twisted in a loose knot atop her head. She frowned. "Is this about Galen calling in sick?"

"No," Amanda replied, allowing the girl to study her badge. "Actually, I'm not with the State Department. Is Galen here?"

The girl nodded. "But he's indisposed right now. What agency are you from? Does this have to do with Galen's work?" Her brow was knitted with worry.

Amanda offered a smile she hoped was reassuring. "No, no. Actually, there's been…well…" She hesitated. "Have you heard on the news about the bombing in the Rosslyn district this morning? I'm here about that."

"I heard about it."

"A man from Galen's department has lost his life, and an agent from my organization is missing. I really do need to speak with Galen."

"Oh." The girl looked at the ground for a while, her face grim but otherwise unreadable. She looked up again, her expression and posture stiff. "He's not…I mean, Galen isn't actually here right now." She bit her lip. "I can have him call you when he gets back."

"You'll be here? Do you live here too?"

The girl gave a shake of her head. "No, I just come over a lot. Galen is my brother. I'm Carolyn Pratt." She dipped her head uncomfortably and mumbled, "I think he might have gone to the pharmacy or something. I know he's been sick today. He's never sick, so he must really feel rotten. I just got here, and he's not home right now. I don't know when he'll be back." She looked over her shoulder into the apartment and turned back to Amanda. "I'd ask you to come in and wait, but I have to leave. I have a class."

Amanda sighed and nodded. She replaced her badge in her purse and drew out a simple business card printed with her name and IFF phone number. "I really would like to talk to him in person. Would you leave a message to have him call me when he gets in?" She held out the card to Carolyn, who hesitated before she took it and examined it.

"Stetson," she read, staring at the card.

"Yep, that's me."

An awkward silence stretched between them before Carolyn looked up again, her deep blue eyes wide and serious. "I'll get the message to him," she said quietly. "I'll tell him to call you." She smiled weakly and nodded her goodbye.

Amanda returned the smile with no greater enthusiasm. Whether Galen would ever receive the message was a matter of lousy odds. As she turned to leave, Amanda heard the door close and the deadbolt lock into place. It had the sound of finality, like the lead she was following. Just one more dead end.


	5. Chapter 5

Almost Home

Chapter 5

From the murky confusion of restless sleep, Lee dreamed he was in the familiar Agency office of Billy Melrose, hunched forward with his elbows on his thighs, while Billy paced slowly behind him, conducting a debriefing.

"I want you to tell me what happened with your drop today, Lee. Did you meet with Alexander, as planned?"

Lee shook his head, trying to clear the unease he was feeling. He should have felt free to inform his friend and section chief of the drop status, but he couldn't shake the lingering suspicion that they were not alone. Automatically, he fell back on basic protocol. "Mind your manners," he intoned.

"What are you saying, Lee?"

"You know what I'm saying. Give me your recognition code."

With a hint of impatience, Billy retorted, "Lee, I am William Melrose. I am your superior. I have clearance to be informed of the status of the drop." There followed a short silence before Billy spoke again, his voice once again calm, deep, perfectly familiar. "Remember, Lee, that I have given the code already. We have established security. Now, let us begin again. Did you meet Alexander today?"

It made perfect sense. Of course they were secure. They were safe within the confines of Billy's office. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute," he mumbled, feeling strangely confused. After a last, momentary hesitation against the strangeness of the encounter, his will relented in spite of himself. Words seemed to drop from his mouth of their own accord. "No. It didn't happen, Billy. Alexander didn't show."

"Did no one come? Who did you meet?"

"I don't know. Man with a gun. He said he wasn't Alexander. He knew about the drop. Wanted the letter." Lee leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted and his thoughts seemed fragmented. Why was his memory so foggy? His breaths came quicker and he felt his anxiety rising with them. "What's happening here, Billy?"

"Relax and take deep breaths, Lee. You must relax and be calm. You have performed your part perfectly. Tell me more about this imposter. Did you give him the letter?"

"No."

"Was anyone else with you and the imposter?"

"Yes."

"Tell me who was with you, Lee. Was it Mr. Albertson?"

"I don't know any Albertson. It was a woman."

For a while, Billy didn't reply. Then his voice returned, insistent and tense, close behind Lee. "Who is the woman, Lee? What is her name?"

"She's no agent, just a civilian. Just a girl. She said her name is…" He stopped and tried to remember. An image passed before his eyes of the nervous young woman with the deep blue eyes and the long, curly hair. The name returned to him. "Her name is Carolyn."

After this, Billy's voice became more clipped, less soothing. It sounded farther away. "You have done very well, Lee. We are finished. You will go back to sleep now."

At that instant, Lee felt a rush of lucidity and his eyes fluttered open. This was no dream. This wasn't Billy. His eyes, wide with alarm, took in a bare light bulb suspended by its wires in the peeling gray ceiling above him. An assemblage of strange faces were peering down at him where he lay, flat on his back with his arms immobilized at his sides by tight bands of leather. "What the—"

"Dasvidanya, Mr. Stetson," spoke a round-faced man with a thick Russian accent, standing to his right, smiling at him tightly. An ominous flash of recognition struck him when he saw the face. It was the last thing he remembered before he was swallowed again by unconsciousness.

* * *

"I hope you got everything you wanted from that," black-haired, Roman-nosed Gustav Veis growled with a mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. His words were directed toward Yan Sadovski, a distinguished looking man of about sixty with a round face, graying temples, and an impeccable suit draping his waddling frame. "Do not think that I will supply you with any more of that serum, Yan. Need I remind you of the expense?" Veis stepped back against the door, allowing Sadovski and his two jumpsuit-clad operatives to pass, and pulled the door closed behind them.

Sadovski uttered a brief order to his two subordinates to stay with the prisoner and turned back to Veis. He sniffed in disgust. "The expense. I have more than covered the expense with the prize in this room." He pressed a carefully-filed fingertip against the cell door. "The serum is the key to unlocking a treasure of American intelligence. The price is small."

Veis turned on his heel and laughed harshly. "Such as his encounter with a civilian lady named Carolyn?" He beckoned Sadovski to move with him some paces down the hall, out of earshot of the other two men, before he continued in a low voice. "You do not yet know the price, Yan. Your assignment was to escort James Albertson and his intelligence documents out of Washington. You have accomplished neither. Albertson is missing. The documents are missing. And all you have to show for it is a drugged up federal agent who clearly knows nothing of this operation. Will Moscow be impressed?" He shrugged indifferently. As the two continued walking down the dim-lit hallway, Veis cast a sidelong glance at the older man and cocked an eyebrow. "I must say the bombing is questionable. Was that part of your plan?"

"Albertson is an imbecile," Sadovski spat, his face darkening with his mood. "He must have used five times the amount of explosive necessary for the pickup. He did that himself."

"The State Department is calling it a KGB attack on American soil."

At this, Sadovski stopped abruptly and pulled Veis' arm to stop him mid-stride. "Where have you heard this?"

Veis smiled, but all humor had left his expression. "Where have I not heard this? It is on every television station, every radio news report. I am surprised you have not received notice from the embassy yet." He began walking down the shadowy corridor again, toward a stairwell door at the end. Reluctantly, Sadovski followed. "Oh yes, Yan," Veis continued. "The media are waiting for the KGB to claim responsibility. A man was killed in the blast."

"Killed? Do we know who?"

With a meaningful stare, Veis replied, "It has the attention of the State Department. We can guess."

"Albertson!" Sadovski exclaimed ruefully. He let out a strangled groan. "I am sure you are right. The man was an imbecile. And we will all suffer for it." He stopped again at the stairwell door. "You are a sensible man, Gustav. What will we do when the embassy calls?"

Veis leaned against the doorway, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. "Ah-h, Yan," he drawled, "it is of no concern to me. _You_ will do whatever Moscow tells you to do." His eyes opened again, and he smirked. "And if it were my problem," he continued, jerking a thumb in the direction of the pair still standing outside the cell at the other end of the hall, "I would be very clear that it was my idiot operatives who brought back the wrong man without my knowledge or approval." He clapped Sadovski once on the shoulder before he entered the stairwell. "I would wash my hands of this nonsense as soon as possible." With a parting nod toward his burdened colleague, he turned away. "And I would not purchase any more expensive truth serum from Comrade Veis," he finished, as the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

"Think fast!"

The words and the basketball hit Jamie King simultaneously, sending his glasses flying and leaving a sting on his left cheek. Hot ire welled up in him and he threw a withering scowl at his older brother, followed closely by a swear word that would probably earn a gasp from his mother, before he bent over to fish his glasses out of the grass. Someday, when the two-year age difference didn't leave so much of a physical gap between them, Jamie swore he was going to throw fists at the guy that would leave his head spinning. He figured by the time he was eighteen the playing field would be even. That just left another six years. He sighed long and deep. Six miserable years.

"Come on, bean-head. I'm just getting your attention. You look lost. What's the matter?" Phillip came jogging up to his side, having retrieved his ball, and was tossing it in the air, trying to spin it on a finger.

It was almost poignant. Rarely was Phillip interested enough in Jamie's state of mind to ask him what was on it. With a nonchalant shrug, Jamie nodded toward their house, two lawns away, with a silver Corvette parked in the drive. "Why's Lee over right now? It's kind of early." He needn't have been impressed by Phillip's newfound sensitivity. All he heard was "Lee is over" and he took off running for the house, leaving Jamie in the dust.

Jamie rolled his eyes. Phillip totally idolized Lee Stetson. Learning Lee was not a filmmaker, as they had previously been told, but a federal intelligence agent, only elevated his coolness factor in Phillip's eyes. Mom's new husband was tall, athletic, drove a radical sports car, and just to top it off, he was a spy. It was everything Phillip himself wanted to be. And everything with which Jamie could never compete.

Jamie told himself he liked Lee fine. He would be a jerk not to. Lee was nice to his grandma, attentive to him and his brother, and clearly adored their mom. Just like Phillip, the man was physically adept, socially talented, and beloved by his mother. Just like Phillip, he was also an involuntary, permanent fixture in Jamie's life. It was a hard pill to swallow, to consider that now he had two Phillips to navigate instead of one. He hoisted his backpack higher up on one shoulder and trudged up to the front door. Oh well, at least Lee wasn't in the habit of sucker punching him with sports paraphernalia.

He hadn't made it much further into the house than the front hall when he realized something was amiss. Voices, two low, female voices, were audible from the living room. The voices were definitely Mom and Grandma. From the inflections, Mom was distressed. Jamie frowned and approached Phillip, who stood rooted at the threshold between the kitchen and living room. He looked at his brother's face and read a mix of shock and confusion. "What's going on?" Jamie whispered. He didn't know why, but it seemed he needed to whisper right now. "Isn't Lee here?"

At once, the voices stopped, and both women stood up quickly. "Boys," Grandma exclaimed, rushing up to them to tousle their hair. "When did you two get in? Usually you make your entrance like a couple of thundering elephants." She had an easy smile on her face, and gently herded Jamie and Phillip back toward the stairway with a hand on their backs. Jamie saw his mother disappear into the kitchen. He knew this drill. Mom was emotional about something and Grandma was running interference. They had been periodically running this maneuver for as long as Jamie could remember.

"I want you two to go upstairs with your bags and wash up. When you come down, I'll give you leave to raid the fridge." Her manner was bright, but it always was.

"Grandma, what's wrong? Where's Lee?" Jamie locked eyes with her and held tight to the bannister, risking a healthy scolding for defying Grandma's emphatic direction. Phillip, too, stayed where he was on the third step, waiting to hear the answer. Or maybe he was waiting to hear how Grandma would overcome Jamie's fit of obstinacy.

But she didn't scold. She wilted a little, and placed gentle hands on Jamie's lean shoulders. "Your mother will tell you all about it, but first I want you to take these bags upstairs and wash up," she said in a low voice that sounded strange coming from Grandma.

He exchanged looks with Phillip, and they both ascended the stairs. At the top, Phillip said softly, "Lee's in big trouble. Mom told Grandma the people they work for even think he's dead."

Jamie's mouth hung open in a big 'o.' Horrified, he whispered loudly, "Is he?!"

The two boys entered their bedroom. Jamie leaned his backpack against the wall in its designated place beside his bed. Phillip lobbed his bag like a misshapen missile over his bed. It landed on the other side with a loud thud. "Mom doesn't think so. She thinks the Soviets have him."

Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie sat down on the edge of his bed. "My step-dad was kidnapped by the Soviets. Phillip, this is totally weird."

Phillip dropped heavily on his bed and leaned with his chin in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. "Either that, or he got blown up in that bombing downtown today. I really hope the Soviets have him." He glanced up at Jamie and sat up straighter. "Beats getting blown up. Mom's upset, you know."

Jamie's mouth drew in a straight line. "Well, duh!" he exclaimed impatiently. He stood up again and moved restlessly around the room. Just when he had convinced himself he would tolerate another six years of cohabiting with Phillip junior and Phillip senior, it was looking as though he would never have that chance. It made him strangely sad.

"Let's go," Phillip said stoutly, shooting to his feet and giving Jamie an encouraging whack on the arm as he passed him. "We'd better let Mom tell us about it herself."

The two brothers performed a precursory hand-washing and clambered down the stairs, leaving no doubt of their approach. Their mother was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook. She looked up and smiled warmly at each of them in turn. "Come sit down with me," she said gently. Jamie looked at her closely. If she had been crying, it was hard to tell. Her eyes weren't red or puffy. He moved quickly to claim the chair closest to Mom. Phillip sat on the other side of him. Grandma was watching the three of them from the kitchen with her back to the sink, arms folded across her chest.

"Boys, you remember a few weeks ago, when I told you all about Lee and me, and the work we do and the secrets we have to keep?" They nodded obediently, and she continued. "Well, right now Lee is…Well, he's sort of on a mission. And something has happened called 'lost contact.' It means we've lost contact with Lee, so we don't know right now where he is or how he's doing."

"I thought he had an interview today," Phillip interjected.

Their mother's eyes lowered at that. "So did I," she replied quietly. She looked up again, and there was a gleam in her eyes. "But that happens in this line of work. Things can change very quickly, and an agent can't always tell his headquarters or even his family what is going on until he reaches a better place to do that. So…" Here, she stopped, bit her lip, pondered what exactly she was willing to share with her young sons. "Boys, I have a very important job to do. I have to re-establish contact with Lee, because I'm his partner. He needs me. So, I want you to know that I'm going to be in and out of the house, maybe at sort of weird hours, for the next day or two. She smiled encouragingly. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm working with other people who want to find Lee too, and we'll all be watching out for each other. Mostly, I'll probably just be at IFF." She paused for a moment. "Are you guys okay with that?"

Jamie nodded, and saw Phillip do likewise. But a question still plagued him. "Do you really think the Soviets took Lee prisoner?" he blurted.

His mother blinked in surprise. "Who told you…Phillip?" She turned a stern expression to the older boy. "Were you eavesdropping on Grandma and me?"

Phillip shrugged and opened his eyes wide. "Me?" He smiled at his mother's unconvinced grimace. "I was just conducting surveillance. Isn't that what you do?"

"Don't be a smart alec," she chided, swatting him on top of the head playfully with a folded newspaper as she rose to her feet. "Mind your grandma when I'm away, and fellas," Her expression turned serious and she placed one hand on each boy's shoulder. "If you do hear anything from Lee or about Lee, you need to call either me or Mr. Melrose right away. You remember where we keep the numbers?"

"Yes, mom," they chorused.

She smiled. "Good."

* * *

The telephone rang at 11:42 p.m. Amanda rolled over in bed and seized it off the hook before the first ring ended. Having had her Agency line forwarded to her home, she was on edge for any late night calls. "Amanda Stetson," she said in a voice husky with sleep.

The voice on the line was very soft, barely above a whisper. "Mrs. Stetson, this is Carolyn Pratt."

Amanda sat bolt upright. "Carolyn!"

"I know it's late, but I need to talk to you, and I can't talk here." She sniffled, and her voice quivered. "I don't know what to do. I'm in so much trouble, and I can't tell anyone."

Amanda forced her own voice calm and steady. "Carolyn, are you in danger right now?"

"I don't think so," she answered.

Amanda closed her eyes and gave thanks to God for that. "Is there an all-night diner or something near where you are? I'll meet you there."

She didn't reply immediately. Amanda could hear the sound of her breathing, coming in ragged gasps. With a whimper, she finally began, "There's a place…" She stopped, cleared her throat, and began again. "There is a place called Archimedes not far from here. It's open all night. It's on Dalton and 37th."

"I'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

Amanda hung up the phone and switched on the light. Maybe this lead wasn't so dead after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Almost Home

Chapter 6

Her hand rested on the kitchen telephone as she stood in the dark, contemplating whether this was a situation she ought to report to Billy. Amanda cringed to herself, remembering Francine's reaction to her interest in investigating Galen Pratt, let alone his sister. Justifying a call to Billy at midnight for such a long shot seemed tenuous at best. She considered the risk. Carolyn didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. Of course, the possibility existed, however slight, that this could be some sort of setup.

Amanda's hand still rested on the receiver while she weighed all the reasons to make the call or to forego it. One factor tipped the scale. She had last spoken to Billy by phone shortly after supper. His good news was that as of yet, emergency workers still had found no human remains in the wreckage of the Farland Building. Amanda already felt inexplicably sure Lee had somehow been spirited away by whoever perpetrated the bombing, and this information supported her idea. The bad news was Billy sounded adamant that The Agency must not infringe on the State Department's investigation of James Albertson. Amanda suspected the Pratts might be considered too close to Albertson, and she dreaded defying a direct order should Billy forbid her from making contact. Consequently, she failed to mention her first visit with Carolyn Pratt. Explaining this second meet would not be easy.

Her mind decided, she released the phone, swiped her purse off the counter, and headed toward the back door. Standard operating procedures be damned.

"Amanda?" called Dotty's voice from the base of the stairs, stopping Amanda short just as she had pulled open the door.

She spun around and froze, seeing her mother's robed silhouette step in front of the kitchen window some feet away. In that moment, as mother and daughter stared at each other in awkward silence, Amanda keenly regretted the distance between herself and her longtime confidante brought about by this life she had chosen. Even with the true nature of her profession revealed to Mother, the great division in their understanding of each other was glaring. What she really longed to do was hold her mother tight and confess every secret still standing between them until the fracture in their relationship was sealed. "Mother," she replied warily.

"Are you wearing your gun?"

She blinked. "My gun?"

Dotty stepped a bit closer and tucked a tendril of her frosted blond hair behind her ear. In the light of the outside streetlamp streaming into the room, Amanda could see the worry lines on her face, but her voice was as chipper as though she were asking about the grocery list. "You're leaving the house at midnight for God knows what kind of clandestine rendezvous. Surely you have your gun, don't you?"

Amanda smiled and shook her head. Perhaps the chasm between them had begun to erode over the past three weeks. "Oh, Mother," she sighed. "I do. Just in case. But I don't really think I'll need it."

"Are you allowed to tell me where you're going?" Dotty reached out a hand and touched her daughter's sleeve. "I mean, in case Lee should happen to call or come here. Will you leave a message for us?"

It only took a moment's thought to decide her answer. "Yes, Mother. I'm going to a diner called Archimedes on the northeast side, near Mt. Rainier. I'm meeting a young woman named Carolyn Pratt who might have some information about Lee. Let me write this down for you." She reached for a pen from the holder near the door and searched for a pad of paper.

Dotty stopped her, taking Amanda in her arms and holding her in a fierce embrace. "Thank you," she murmured against her neck. She pulled back again and smiled wanly. "Be very, very careful, Amanda."

"I will, Mother."

"You find him and bring him home."

"Oh, Mother, I hope so."

"I love you, darling."

"I love you, too."

A minute later, Amanda was in the Corvette, driving through the night toward her midnight appointment. The night was particularly dark, moonless, with a driving wind and distant rumble of thunder promising an autumn storm. The place wasn't particularly difficult to find, and the parking was plentiful. In the sparse, late-night traffic, she arrived at her destination in all of fifteen minutes. She ran through the wind to the door of the free-standing diner with paint peeling from its Mansard roof and rickety blinds covering floor to ceiling glass panels on two sides.

A gust of wind accompanied her inside, bringing a swirl of locust tree leaves in with her. Artificial greenery in wicker planters hung suspended between swaying chandeliers along rows of maroon-colored vinyl booths. Up at the front sat two Hispanic men on stools at a counter next to a revolving pie case, sipping coffee. A trio of young people dressed in torn clothing and spiked hair occupied a window booth in the back. The three looked up momentarily at Amanda when she entered, but quickly returned to an intense conversation punctuated by frequent bursts of vulgarities.

"How many?"

She turned quickly to face the waitress who had come up behind her, a plump, middle-aged woman wearing her mousy hair pulled back in a large, sparkly hair clip and a bored expression on her face.

Amanda peered around the room once more. No one else was there. "One more person will be joining me," she replied, and followed the waitress to a window booth halfway between the front door and the table of raucous juveniles. She sat facing the door and waited.

Half an hour later, when rain had begun pelting the windows and the waitress had given up on taking Amanda's order and receded to the kitchen, Carolyn Pratt finally appeared. At first, she stood just inside the door, looking as though she would bolt back outside at the slightest provocation. Cautiously, so as not to frighten her, Amanda raised a hand in greeting and offered a smile. The younger woman bit her lip and hesitated before she finally made her approach. She came to a stop beside the booth and continued to stand there apprehensively.

"Are you okay, Carolyn?"

She nodded and finally dropped down across from Amanda in the booth, though she remained perched on the edge of her seat. "Sorry I kept you waiting. I almost couldn't come." She leaned on an elbow with her hand over her forehead. Her clothes were spotted with rain and her wheat-colored hair fell forward in damp ringlets, obscuring her face.

Amanda frowned. "What's the matter? Did you talk to your brother?"

Her hand dropped into her lap and she drew herself up a little straighter. Ignoring Amanda's questions, she said, "Galen isn't going to talk to you. If he finds out I went to you, he won't be talking to me anymore either." She met Amanda's eyes for only a moment before she looked down again. "I can't stay, but I want to tell you what I can about your missing agent." She paused and glanced up again. She was trembling and her lips were pale, and she pulled her nylon jacket more tightly around herself as though she were warding off a chill. "He's your husband, isn't he?"

Amanda felt a prickling sensation course down her spine, but she replied evenly, "Yes."

Carolyn's eyes brimmed with tears and she trembled harder. "Lenny had no idea there was so much explosive in that bomb. He would have given him more time to get away if he had known. He'd never hurt anyone on purpose." The words fell out in a rush, and the tears spilled over and down her face. She reached for a napkin. "He had to be desperate to do something like that or he'd never do it. Never!"

Numbly, Amanda watched the girl dissolve in misery before her. Her brow furrowed while she pondered what Carolyn had revealed. "Your brother set off the bomb? Why, Carolyn? And if he didn't plant it, then who did?"

She shook her head, raising her hands to press them against both temples. Fretfully, she cried, "I can't tell you that. I don't know, I don't know. I'm so sorry." With a self-conscious wince, she lowered her voice to a whisper and continued with grim urgency. "When I saw an ambulance pull up to the front of the building, that meant the bomb was going to blow, and I had to be out back in the car to get us out of there. I saw the ambulance, and I ran."

"What ambulance? What about the ambulance?"

The restaurant door swung open and two men walked in, talking loudly. They called their greeting to the waitress as she pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen, and they went directly to one of the booths. Carolyn's eyes darted over to the men, studying them intently, and at first she seemed not to have heard Amanda.

"Carolyn, talk to me," Amanda urged, willing her to say more. "I think Mr. Stetson did get clear of the bomb, but we still can't find him, and I don't know whether he is hurt or how bad. Are you saying there was an ambulance there _before_ the bomb detonated?"

Carolyn nodded and peered at Amanda through wide, haunted eyes. She slid out of her seat and stood up. "Lenny didn't tell me who, but I think they were KGB," she murmured. "He knows them. I've heard him mention a name. Sanovsky or Sadovsky. Something like that. I think that's who's running the show."

Amanda rose to her feet as well. She reached out a hand and laid it on the girl's arm. "Please stay with me, Carolyn. If you're in trouble, let me help you."

She shook her head and shrugged away the hand. "You can't help me." Her eyes were glistening. "I just want you to know, I think they thought your husband was somebody else."

"Who?"

She stood beside the booth, shifting from one foot to the other and wringing her hands restlessly, reluctant to answer, eager to leave. Casting a fearful glance over her shoulder, she began backing away toward the door from which she had entered. "James Albertson," she whispered, turning to face Amanda one last time. "Please don't follow me. I only came here because I want you to find your husband. I don't want anyone else to die over this." Her expression stricken, she hurriedly crossed the room to the door and fled the building.

Amanda followed her as far as the door. There she stopped and watched Carolyn as she ran, with her head bent against the wind that lifted and tangled her long hair. The girl crossed the street at a dead run, then continued on down a lamp-lit side street with rapid strides. Her course was apparent. She was on her way back to Galen's apartment.

After fishing her keys from her purse, Amanda left the diner and returned to the Corvette. Pensively, she fingered the handle of the pistol she had tucked into a holster on her belt. It hadn't been her intention to use the gun tonight, but it might very well become necessary. Carolyn was sitting on information not only about the whereabouts of Lee, but of the murder of a federal agent and the bombing of a city building. At the cost of destroying whatever rapport she had established with her young contact, Amanda started up the car and returned to Galen Pratt's apartment. It was time for Carolyn Pratt to be reeled in.

* * *

Yevgeny Lagunov hadn't spent nineteen years in loyal service to Communist Russia via the secret police just to be sent home in shame, as someone else's scapegoat. He sat sullenly behind the steering wheel of the black luxury sedan, blowing a heavy cloud of smoke from a continuous chain of cigarettes, and waiting. He jaw was clenched in anger against the insult of the tongue lashing he had received from his commander, Yan Sadovsky, that afternoon.

The car idled with the lights down, the hypnotic pumping of the windshield wipers against a light rain the only sound within the cab. His freshman agent partner, Sergei Markin, sat mutely next to him. The two had changed out of their blue medic jumpsuits and back into the more familiar business attire they wore daily before they began tonight's stakeout. And now they watched, and waited.

"How long?" Markin muttered. He stretched his long legs as best he could and turned to Lagunov expectantly. "Will you move tonight or wait until daylight?"

"Tonight," came the reply. Lagunov lit yet another cigarette and drew a deep drag off of it. "Sadovsky may retain the right to set the blame on us, but I will not return to Leningrad empty-handed. That fool, Albertson, is dead, but it is good riddance. He is no great loss."

Markin grunted his agreement. "Shot to death. Who did it? One of theirs?"

"Indeed, shot to death," Lagunov confirmed grimly, "by the one who knew about the drop. Who else knew about our assignment?" He turned dark, angry eyes to his partner and answered his own question. "The one who recruited the help of a civilian woman named 'Carolyn.'" He smiled humorlessly at Markin, noting the question still lingering in his eyes. "Have you forgotten Mr. Albertson's protégé?"

Skeptically, Markin frowned. "Pratt? The kid he had copying his documents? He is harmless. Carolyn is only his sister. What has she to do with it?"

Lagunov nodded. "That harmless kid knew about the documents and the money. Where are they now?" He nodded out the windshield before them, exhaling another lengthy plume of smoke into the haze before them. "Sadovsky thought he was harmless as well, but I took the trouble to investigate. That kid is the son of the late Roger Pratt, a legend in the intelligence community, well-known by your superiors and a great enemy of our State. He was closely involved in the rearing of his children, since they lost their mother early on. The boy, Galen, was raised in a very elite and guarded circle. But his loyalty is unknown. He is, as they say, a 'loose cannon.' Did you know his sister now drives for him? I am told they are quite close."

Markin sat up straighter in his seat and shot a troubled look toward Lagunov. "So the information the Stetson man provided is not worthless. It could even prove invaluable. You should be commended for your efforts to salvage this operation," he said carefully.

"Oh, I will be, Sergei, provided I bring the prize. When we recover both the documents and the payoff, then will come the commendation. If only Sadovsky were not such an idiot, listening to that bureaucrat Veis. He is discarding a valuable source prematurely, and making sport out of this Albertson mess." The older man snorted his displeasure. "We have to be first to bring the prize. The key lies with Albertson's Pratt. So, for now, we pay a visit to Galen Pratt." Lagunov nodded toward the apartment building directly across from the lot where they sat. He smiled faintly, flicking ash out the window, as he watched a young, curly-haired woman approach the address at a hurried clip, ascend the steps to the front door, and disappear inside. "You go in," the senior agent muttered, cutting the engine.

"Shouldn't we wait for Galen Pratt's return? What do you want with her?"

Lagunov laughed harshly and threw a knowing look toward Markin. "If Carolyn Pratt is of any value to her brother, she should be well suited to help us flush him out of his hole, correct? She knows you. This should be easy. Go." Markin shifted forward in his seat, hand gripping the door handle, but eyes filled with doubt still fixed on Lagunov. The senior agent glowered at his young partner's reticence. "Unless you have a better plan, Sergei. But I promise you, I will not return empty-handed. If Albertson is dead, then his documents will vindicate us. I will not wait for one of Veis' lackeys to recover them from under our noses."

He continued to observe Markin's expression with interest, as though probing the hidden intentions of his mind. With perfect nonchalance, he looked away and drew off his next cigarette. "The beauty of a woman has caused many a man's downfall. You admire her." It wasn't a question. "Perhaps tonight will prove a test of your own loyalty, Sergei. Do not sell yourself cheap, on any woman's account. Succeed in this mission, and you will share the reward with me in full." He glanced sidelong at his partner, his thin-lipped mouth breaking into a crooked sneer. "Fail me, Comrade Markin," he murmured, "and you will have far worse to fear than a shameful homecoming."

* * *

The telephone rang once, and Francine was very sure it was just part of a dream. After hours of useless busywork at her computer and fretting over things she couldn't control, she had finally crawled into bed and entered into a reasonably deep sleep when she was jarred awake by the ringing of the phone. She wasn't the duty officer that night, so no one from work should be looking for her. Not until the third ring did she rouse herself enough to pull the phone off the receiver and groan into it, "Desmond."

"Francine, did I wake you? It's Amanda." Her voice was low, a quiet rasp, and it sounded distant.

Immediately, Francine became fully alert. She pushed up on an elbow"Amanda? Where are you? You sound like you're on a portable line."

"I'm in Lee's car, outside Galen Pratt's apartment building." She hesitated before continuing. "I think I need your help."

"What?" Francine cried, sitting fully upright. "What are you doing over there?"

"Listen, I don't have time to explain how, but Galen's sister knows about the bombing. She was there. I want to bring her in." Almost to herself, she added, "I probably shouldn't take this on by myself."

"No! No, don't do that. Just stay where you are." Francine darted around her bedroom as far as the phone cord would let her, hurriedly pulling on a blouse and pants, searching the shoe rack over her closet door for a pair of suitable footwear. "Give me the address. I'm on my way. Just don't do anything until I get there."

Dutifully, Amanda recited the address. After a heartbeat's pause, she caught her breath and exclaimed, "Oh, Francine! A man just went in after her. I'm going in. Hurry!" She cut the line without waiting to hear Francine's frantic objection.

With a groan of frustration, Francine slammed down the receiver. She raced to the garage entrance of her townhome, pausing only to twist her hair back in a clip and draw a long, button-down tunic over her shoulder holster. Her heart was racing in one Amanda-induced, instant adrenaline kick as she slid behind the wheel of her car. "I don't know how Scarecrow keeps up with this."


	7. Chapter 7

Almost Home

Chapter 7

"I told you not to follow me," Carolyn Pratt complained with a pout, standing in front of the narrowly opened door to her brother's apartment.

"I never promised I wouldn't."

"I knew this would happen! I wish I never called you."

"No you don't, Carolyn. You're a nice girl who wants to do the right thing. I'm here to help you do that." Amanda smiled gently, waited patiently in the hallway for her young subject to soften, and kept her foot carefully wedged in the door just in case she didn't. "I really don't want to take you in under arrest, so please let me in and we'll talk right here. Tell me the whole story this time, okay?" Her words were light, but her gaze was unwavering. "From what I can gather, you have more on your plate than you can handle. You need help. Tell me what happened that got you in this trouble." Still no answer from Carolyn, but she wasn't trying to close the door in Amanda's face either. "Please," she urged, almost whispered. With no small anxiety, she wondered whether she would have to pull her gun on a frightened, unarmed young woman. It would be such a good time for Francine to arrive and take over.

At last, Carolyn appeared to deflate and stepped away from the door, leaving it ajar. She walked back inside the great room, which was furnished with an oversized sofa and set of chairs and a small desk with a computer on it. It was a minimally decorated space, lit dimly in the blue glow of a lava lamp on the desk. Carolyn stopped in front of the sofa, but she didn't sit down.

"So," Amanda began casually, joining Carolyn in the room. She maintained a nonthreatening distance, carefully searching the visible area for signs of a visitor. "Do you have to go to work in the morning?" She had seen a man enter the building very shortly after Carolyn, but so far she couldn't tell whether he was here, or was just a neighbor. Her gut told her it could very well be Galen Pratt.

Carolyn shook her head. "I go to school right now. I don't work." She picked up a lock of her hair and began twirling it absently around her finger.

"What are you studying?"

"Chemistry. I like the lab."

Amanda nodded, considered her next words carefully before she spoke. "You seem to be at Galen's apartment a lot. I notice you have a key. You and your brother must be pretty close."

Carolyn dropped the lock of hair and smiled sadly, her gaze turning to a photograph of the two of them pinned to a message board by the desk. "He's all I have," she admitted. "I live in a dormitory at school, officially, but I'm probably at Galen's as much as I'm there. I give him rides so he doesn't have to pay cabs or take the bus so much."

"So he doesn't drive."

"No," she confirmed. "He's had a seizure disorder. He could drive if he wanted to, but he won't. His last seizure happened seven years ago, while he was driving. No one was hurt, but it shook him up, so he doesn't drive anymore." Caught up in her recollections, she continued, "Then when he tried to get into operative training a couple of years ago, they wouldn't take him because of his medical history. He was so disappointed, especially since he hasn't had a seizure since the accident, and he's been off his medication for the past three years. Uncle Jim felt bad for him, so that's how he got in with cryptology. It's non-operational, but close to the action. And he loved Uncle Jim. It was nice they got to work together." Her expression became sad, and her eyes downcast.

"Uncle Jim," Amanda repeated. "Do you mean James Albertson?"

Carolyn nodded. "He's not actually our blood relative, but he and our dad were friends way before Galen or I were born. He pretty much took us in after our dad died. He put us through school." She shrugged and looked at Amanda again. "Guess I'll have to apply for grants from now on." Then, hearing herself, she cringed in mortification and her hands flew to her face. "I can't believe I just said that. I'm sorry."

Amanda smiled at her. "It's okay." She grimaced and drew a breath. Now it was time to get to the meat of the interview. "Carolyn, what happened that you and Galen were at the Farland Building yesterday morning? I know why Mr. Stetson was there, and I think I know Mr. Albertson was the person he should have been meeting. So what happened?"

She wasn't surprised to see Carolyn's eyes well with tears. She looked to the ground again. "I told you, Galen would never hurt anyone on purpose. He found out something about Uncle Jim, something he was doing was wrong. Galen was in on it, too, I think, but he didn't know it until it was too late. He woke me up early yesterday and said he needed a ride somewhere. He wouldn't tell me where. He had me drive up the back alley and let him out at the back of the building. He told me to stay where I was and just wait for him." Carolyn's hands fidgeted in front of her as she spoke. She paused and looked at Amanda anxiously. "He just wanted to stop Uncle Jim from making a terrible mistake, but they argued and at some point Uncle Jim pulled a gun on him. I don't know what happened exactly, but I heard shots and I got worried, so I went in." A sob choked her, and she stopped and turned away. She stood there, facing the sofa, weeping openly with her shoulders shaking.

Amanda scanned the room, found a tissue box on the desk, and pulled two to give to the girl. She stepped beside her. "So Galen shot Jim, right? And it was an accident?" She saw Carolyn nod her confirmation. "And then Lee came to make the drop, but Mr. Albertson was already…" She stopped and nodded their shared understanding before she continued. "And then Galen set off a bomb, but he didn't know it was that big. He was expecting just a little bomb. Is that right?"

Carolyn pinched her nose with her tissue and met Amanda's gaze. "Yes," she managed. She dabbed her eyes and sighed. "Jim had the bomb ready for his escape. He knew the INR was on to him. He had everything arranged…" Suddenly she stopped, and Amanda knew by the tremor in her voice, her distraction, and the flicker of her eyes toward a spot behind Amanda that the man who had followed her into the building was ready now to make his appearance.

Carolyn's face contorted in alarm and she sucked in a gasp, but Amanda was already responding to her instincts. She dropped to the floor like a rock and rolled to her back, whipping her gun from its holster. With a white-knuckled, two-handed grip, she extended her arms outward, pointing the muzzle at the startled man standing open-mouthed in the doorway between the great room and the bedroom, almost within arm's reach. His own gun dangled from his right hand at his side. In a voice she didn't recognize, Amanda hollered, "Drop it now!"

"Mrs. Stetson, no!" Carolyn screamed, almost simultaneously. "Don't shoot him."

Amanda locked eyes with the man. She didn't want to shoot, she really didn't. But at this moment she never felt more ready to pull that trigger. She had to be ready. Lee wasn't here to do the dirty work for her. It was a strange time and a stranger reason to miss him so acutely.

She dragged her attention back to the moment and concluded with a little surprise that the man before her was not Galen Pratt. By now, she had seen two pictures of Carolyn's brother, and this man was taller, stockier, and darker than Galen, though he appeared no older. He had heavy eyebrows that shaded deep-set eyes in a face that would have been quite handsome except for his narrow, angular jaw that gave him a foxlike appearance. Amanda waited until the man obediently dropped his firearm. Then she rose on her elbows and pulled upright without disturbing her aim, and carefully confiscated the gun and held it firmly in her left hand. "Carolyn, who is this person?" she demanded.

"He…he's…" Carolyn's voice shook and she stammered. "I-I know him from school. He's a friend of mine." Carolyn and the young man stared at each other steadily, their eyes exchanging unspoken words.

Amanda glanced at the man's gun, now in her grip. "Russian," she observed. "9mm Makarov. Can you show me some I.D.?"

"Please, allow me, ma'am." Slowly, the man reached into his jacket and extracted his wallet. Amanda motioned for him to drop it in front of her. She reached for it gingerly and inspected it, never drawing her attention away from her gun and where she kept it trained. "It contains both my driver's license and my university identification," the man continued, "so you can see Carolyn does not lie."

"Your I.D. says your name is Adam Johnson, but your accent says something else. So we have a fake name and a standard issue KGB firearm. How do you really know him, Carolyn? And what's his real name?'"

Carolyn whimpered and dropped onto the couch, holding her head in her hands. "How do I explain this? It was Uncle Jim who introduced him to Galen, but I didn't know that until later. His name is Sergei Markin. Yes, I know he's KGB, but he's not a monster. He just needs something Galen has, and he wants me to get a message to Galen to arrange to return it. That's all."

Amanda raised an eyebrow at the KGB agent. "That's all, huh? What are you missing? Perhaps the same State Department documents we're missing?"

"No!" Carolyn protested.

"Carolyn," Markin chided quietly but firmly. He shrugged apologetically at Amanda. "Actually, it is a briefcase full of money my associates were paying Mr. Albertson, but since he is dead and I do not have him, I do need the money back." He smiled. "You understand, I am only trying to make up for a botched mission. Obviously, Mr. Albertson will not be defecting after all. I came simply to ask Miss Pratt to help me locate her brother so I can try and save my job."

Amanda tucked the Russian gun into her belt and pulled herself up to stand. "I have backup on the way. I think both of you need to come on in and explain all of this to my superior. Let's move out into the hall, okay? Slowly." Amanda had herded the two outside the apartment and was closing the door behind her when Markin stopped in the middle of the hall, faced her and looked at her imploringly.

"Mrs. Stetson, please let me have my gun." Smiling sheepishly at her expected refusal, he shook his head. "Carolyn will tell you, I am a man of my word. I will go where you tell me and I will tell you whatever you want to know even now. But I will not go another step without my gun. Please trust me on this one thing."

"Please," Carolyn echoed quietly, standing beside him.

"I can tell you about the drop, the bomb. I know who has led the mission to remove James Albertson and his documents from this country. I will withhold nothing from you. Please."

"I can't do that!" Amanda exclaimed. She had never been so baffled by a request in her life. "I'm bringing you in, Mr. Markin. My superior needs to speak to you. If you want to work out a way to get your gun back with him, that's fine, but I can't make any deals with you myself."

Markin's eyes flashed. "Oh no, Mrs. Stetson?" he pressed on, his tone more clipped. "What if I have information about your agent, Lee Stetson? I can guess it is not a coincidence, your names. My superior has been ordered to terminate him, Mrs. Stetson. What if I can tell you when and where he will be taken for disposal? Then will you trust me and let me go?"

Nothing in operative training school teaches a student what she will do in the situation where the life of a loved one rests in her hands, and requires only a small bit of selling out to save it. Amanda felt the color drain from her face, and her heart sank. It was too much to ask, to disown one's feelings, to lay aside one's own heart, for the better good of National Security, and yet she was sworn to do just that. A sick feeling grew in the pit of her stomach as she stood frozen, contemplating two equally outrageous and unacceptable choices laid before her. She remembered a time, years ago, when Lee had been in a similar place. Under pain of treason, he disobeyed a direct command and let a captive KGB agent go free in order to rescue her from certain death due to an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. He had done such a thing barely knowing her, barely ready to acknowledge her as a friend. She had not yet become his partner, his spouse, his everything.

"I will," she said, and she pulled the Russian pistol from her belt.

A flash of steel from the stairwell caught her eye, but too late for her to react. She heard the telltale crack of gunfire almost at the same moment, followed by Carolyn's screams and Markin's hands thrown up in shock as blood gushed from a bullet wound that plowed straight through his back and out his right shoulder. It lodged into the wall inches from Amanda's head, while Markin collapsed to the ground, gasping.

"Carolyn, get down!" Amanda heard herself shout, and she was firing toward the stairs, toward the cold metal of the enemy gun and the arm that held it. She fired until she ran out of rounds, barely registering the startled grunt from the assailant when her aim found its target, nor the series of sickening thuds of a human form falling down stairs.

In the stillness of the aftermath, she was sitting on the floor, not remembering having sat down on it. Her breathing came in panting gasps as she stared hollowly toward the empty stairwell, uncomprehending of Carolyn's whimpers or Markin's moans, or the reality of what she had done lying unmoving at the base of the stairs.

It was the thought of Lee that brought her back to her senses. "Markin!" she barked, crawling to the fallen man and shaking him alert. She looked over to Carolyn, who knelt at his other side. "Go call an ambulance. He's alive," she ordered. She turned back to Markin, feeling panic welling up in her. The man was fading quickly. "Tell me, Markin. Where and when. Tell me!"

He gasped, swallowed, and his dazed eyes found her face and focused on it. "Dunbar," he whispered, and he coughed weakly. His breaths were becoming shallow, and taking an increasingly labored effort. "Before…seven."

"Before seven?"

He nodded weakly. "Before the sun."

* * *

Trust Amanda to ferret out the particulars of a KGB plot to smuggle classified documents out of the country based on a cryptology clerk calling in sick. Francine shook her head and grimaced while she sped northeastward in her Mustang GT. Her heart was still racing with anticipation of the unknown, a false alarm, perhaps, or gunplay. God forbid it should be an agent down. She chewed her lip and clutched the wheel with two hands. Amanda was her own charge right now. Scarecrow would kill Francine if ever she should allow anything to happen to his precious Amanda in his absence.

She smiled to herself ruefully. Since when had her sense of responsibility toward Amanda's well-being begun to mirror Lee Stetson's? The woman was simply a coworker, soon to be colleague. Francine would never have dignified a civilian contact run amok with the title of colleague, even though Lee seemed to have no difficulty with the idea, nor did even Billy Melrose. But since the woman was officially receiving her credentials in less than a week, well, Francine couldn't begrudge her the conceptual upgrade.

A stoplight turned yellow and she gunned the engine. The site was still several blocks away. Francine hadn't been so shortsighted not to place a status call to Billy on her mobile as she was leaving the house. Hopefully backup would be there already.

She shook her head again, slowly, returning to her previous ruminations. Okay, maybe Amanda could be called a friend. She consistently came back smiling, no matter what crap Francine dished her. Not a lick of sordid gossip was ever sourced to the suburbanite, though God knows Francine had provided ample opportunity over the years. If Francine didn't know better, she would have to suspect Amanda even liked her a little.

No, Amanda confounded her at every turn. She had walked into Francine's world four years ago the quintessential happy homemaker, complete with department store wardrobe and a live-in mother to report to. She was frump with a capital "F". And yet, from day one she had the outrageous ability to excel at everything she touched. Over the past four years, her field instincts had become unparalleled, her diplomatic skills, charming, her courage under mortal threat, immovable. All the while, Amanda had hooked and patiently conquered the heart of the most ineligible lady's man the intelligence community had produced this generation, until death do us part.

What was most unnerving was Amanda Stetson, nee King, accomplished all of this with effortless grace. Everything Francine had sweat blood trying to achieve, Amanda waltzed in and assumed without snagging a cardigan. In a weaker moment, Francine might own up to envy. Fortunately, Francine Desmond was not a weak woman by any means.

She pulled in neatly next to the curb in front of the address Amanda had provided. The two-story walk-up was dark and still. Too quiet, she thought as she exited her car and appraised the place carefully. The only light coming from the street-facing windows of the two-story building emanated from the front foyer. She was nearly to the door when she heard the shots. They were close, just inside and up the stairs. Instantly, she flattened herself alongside the door, gun drawn and uplifted in front of her, ready. She carefully turned the door knob and prepared to throw the door wide open.

Then she heard thumps from inside. She peered in through the window and simply stood gaping. There, lying face up in a contortion of limbs at the base of the stairs, was a body, the gun it had once held abandoned several steps up.

Flinging open the door, Francine darted inside, sweeping her gun left to right and up, covering any possible attack. "Amanda!" she shouted. She heard voices faintly from up the stairs, but no reply to her summons. She ascended the stairs on nimble, soundless feet and emerged at the top cautiously, slowly peering over the stairwell into the lighted upstairs hallway. There, she beheld Amanda, down on the floor on her hands and knees, bent over a man who was lying in blood, engaged in a tense exchange of words.

"Amanda," Francine hissed, leaving the stairwell and holstering her gun.

Amanda looked up, and her eyes were wild with dismay. "Dunbar, Francine. What is Dunbar?"

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, and Carolyn has an ambulance coming. But Francine, do you know where Dunbar is?"

Francine knelt down beside the woman, concern lighting her blue eyes. "I know Dunbar Reservoir, east of here on the Potomac. Do you know this man?"

"He's KGB," Amanda replied distractedly. She scrambled to her feet. "We have to go. There isn't much time. You have to come with me. I haven't been to Dunbar reservoir…"

"Wait, Amanda. Calm down." Francine stood with her. "Slow down. We can't just leave. We have to call a cleanup crew for this." She added sharply, "I don't suppose you told Billy where you were going?" She paused just long enough to register Amanda's evasive eyes. "I didn't think so." She blew out a short breath. "Well, I did. I don't know what's taking backup so long. The concerned neighbors will have the police here first at this rate. That'll be swell." Her eyes rolled with derision. "So, since we're waiting, tell me what's going down at Dunbar."

"I was right about Galen Pratt," Amanda rasped, her voice faltering with emotion. "He was at the drop, and so was Carolyn. They saw Lee." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and her eyes began to tear. She swiped at them impatiently with the backs of her hands. "This man is a KGB agent called Sergei Markin. Lee is going to be killed before sunrise somewhere at Dunbar. Francine, I don't have time—"

Francine put her hands on Amanda's shoulders firmly. "Listen! Listen. Do you hear that?" Outside the building came the sound of car doors closing and the pounding of footsteps. "That is our backup. Now I'm going to go downstairs and relay your tip to Billy right away. Take it easy, okay? He's going to have the place swarming with the bloodhounds in no time. Wait here."

It took only a few minutes for Francine to call in the update to Billy, and by then the apartment complex was crawling with federal agents and local police. An ambulance arrived with lights flashing, and a team of paramedics was tending to Markin. Francine rejoined Amanda, whom she found standing alone with her back to the wall at the end of the hallway. If she wasn't exuding her usual calm, at least she appeared less frantic. It wasn't until then Francine considered how seldom it was she saw Amanda's composure crumble away.

"You did good," she insisted firmly in a low voice. Amanda raised her eyes to her and did not reply. "I can't believe I lived to see the day you'd use a perfectly good gun instead of a lamp or something as your weapon of choice." She smiled at Amanda encouragingly, not expecting a smile in return, conscious of the fact Amanda had never shot another human being until now and never hoped to.

"You had to do it, Amanda. Someone was going to end up dead tonight. The only thing you screwed up is going in without backup. Listen to me." Her eyes were large and luminous, set firmly on Amanda's face. "Don't ever do that again, okay? Even if I don't agree with your instincts, if you're really serious, I'm going to back you up."

"I'm sorry, Francine," Amanda said quietly, allowing a feeble smile. "I knew it was a long shot. I didn't want to contradict you on something that might be nothing. Maybe if I didn't feel like I'm just the resident Arlington housewife to you…"

Francine rolled her eyes and raised a hand to stop her. "Oh please, Amanda. Let's face it. You are a gifted agent, and you've been one for longer than I care to admit. Billy saw it from the start." Her eyes narrowed and lips curled upward slyly. "But don't think you will ever kill my fun. You will always be the resident Arlington housewife to me."


	8. Chapter 8

Almost Home

Chapter 8

Lee awoke and it was dark. He first became sentient of the dripping. It was a constant drip, every four seconds, and hit a floor that was apparently concrete, from the sound of it. There was a slight echo, and a splattering of each drip. He had counted a dozen or so drips before he screwed open his eyes against a throbbing headache and began to more fully take in his surroundings.

The darkness was nearly complete. The only source of light came from a slit at the base of a door ten feet or so to his right. He was lying on a narrow, thinly padded cot and was dressed in some sort of uniform fatigues, a short-sleeved shirt and drawstring pants. His own clothes were nowhere he could see. Curiously, his shoes were his own. He tried to push himself upright on his elbows and found himself effectively immobilized by straps around his arms that secured them to his sides. Testing the give on his bonds, he leaned as far as he could to his right side until a razor-sharp pain ripped across his shoulder, rendering him breathless. He collapsed onto his back again and focused on mentally subduing the pain and slowing his gasping breaths.

His ears were ringing, and he felt mentally foggy and physically wiped out. How he ended up here he couldn't remember. He tried. He recalled a bright light above him and a battery of questions. Clearly he had undergone an interrogation, no doubt drug assisted. Whose great catch was he? He remembered the accents. Russian. With a sudden twinge of panic, he wondered whether he was still in D.C.

Then he remembered a drop. There was a man who wasn't his contact, demanding the drop parcel. And a bomb. He closed his eyes and uttered a soft groan. That's how he ended up here. The bomb!

A sharp creak from the door signaled it was being unlatched, and he froze and closed his eyes. He heard the door open, and footsteps enter the room. A light glared down directly over him, causing him to involuntarily flinch. He heard a soft chuckle from above, to his right.

"Consider this your early wake up call," said a heavily accented voice. Lee opened his eyes narrowly, adjusting to the glare of the bare light bulb overhead. Standing over him was a man, an unpleasantly familiar man. He wasn't particularly vicious, as far as KGB chieftains were concerned. He was hardline Communist politically, but thoroughly westernized culturally, with a penchant for tailored suits, gourmet foods, and health spas. His broad face had grown rounder since Lee had seen him last, but the features were unmistakable.

"Sadovsky," he croaked, his lips and throat parched.

The man smiled faintly. "You remember me. I am truly flattered. We haven't met since Milan in '81." He paused, his smile growing more self-satisfied. "Scarecrow," he acknowledged triumphantly.

Lee steadied himself with a long, slow exhalation, licked his lips. His mouth felt like cotton. "Don't go getting sentimental. I haven't missed you any. So what do you want from me? Dare I ask?"

Sadovsky shrugged. "We have accomplished most of that already. You probably do not remember them, but I was rather enjoying our conversations. Unfortunately, now I am required to remove you from our custody. This time is good-bye."

"Aw," Lee sighed, feigning disappointment. "And I'm finally awake to say hello. Do I get to pick where you let me off?"

"You are funny. I am sorry to say, the location of your discharge has been selected for you already. We will leave in thirty minutes."

"Let me guess. Bottom of the Potomac?"

Sadovsky nodded his appreciation. "Dunbar Reservoir, actually. I find it very beautiful this time of year." He beheld Lee with regret. "Of course, if this does not appeal to you, there is another option."

Lee raised an eyebrow and didn't reply otherwise. He knew what kind of option Sadovsky had in mind. At least he had managed to ascertain he hadn't left the States.

"Tell me what you know about the State Department's mole."

"That's easy," Lee said, baring his teeth. "I don't know a damned thing. Is that good enough for you?"

"Then let us try an Agency project. Tell me what you know about the Iliankovich Network in East Berlin. This ought to be familiar to you. What is its cover, and who are your contacts?" He met Lee's hard gaze with a smirk. "Why not cooperate with me and make this easier on yourself? You are given no other choice. No one is looking for you anymore." He stared intently at Lee's face, searching for that flicker of fear that could be his downfall. Lee steeled himself further, shuttering his feelings behind a stone countenance. "The television news reports say Lee Stetson was killed in the bombing. So what is it to you? They have given up on you, Lee. As far as your friends are concerned, Scarecrow is a memory. You could start over anywhere in the world, and no one would be the wiser. Are they still worth throwing away your life?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

With a confidence he didn't truly feel, Lee shot back, "My loyalties are spoken for, Sadovsky."

"Then I guess I am talking to a dead man."

"Then I guess you are."

Without fanfare, Sadovsky turned and walked away through the creaky door, leaving the light on. A guard outside pulled the door shut and bolted it with a solid clang.

Under the hot glare of the bare light bulb, Lee was alone, for now. He knew better than to take Sadovsky's dismal report to heart. Maybe the world did think he had been killed in the bombing, but the Agency wouldn't assume it without a body. Billy would send out a team. Amanda would…

No. He spat an expletive to himself, viciously dispelling his course of thought, beating back ruminations that might threaten to overwhelm him. Two emotions that served no agent any useful purpose in a hostage situation were fear and regret. Fear, he had learned to control long ago. It helped that he was dubiously blessed with the tendency to act first, think about it later. If all else failed, taking refuge in anger was a potent diversion.

Regret, though, continually gave him the greater difficulty. He was schooled in carrying, just beneath the surface, a bitter understanding of the disparity between what could have been and what became. For most of his adult life he had practiced running from it via the base pleasures of no-strings trysts, exotic vacations, and in a pinch, a bottle of high-end scotch. At his peak, he was employing no less than four black books of willing female contacts, paltry concessions to assuage the inner demons. It was never enough. All of that came crashing down when he found himself faced with an inexhaustible source of fascination far too compelling to ignore. His own arm snaked out and grabbed his fate by the waist one morning at Washington Union Station, and regret had since become only the shadow of a new life teaming with love and family and a future to live for, or lose.

A heaviness settled in his heart as his resolve failed him and thoughts of Amanda inundated his mind. She had to be worried sick. She must be looking for him, and with nothing to go on, she would be too late to help him. She would have to carry on without him, go on raising the family without him.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. He was so close this time. He was three days from home. After all the years of loneliness, the empty, motherless years of a childhood spent with a man who knew something about accommodating a child but nothing about loving one; after the scores of indiscriminate encounters with vacuous females who were more than willing to give him a good time as long as he gave them no demands and no regrets; after four long years of growing ever closer to Amanda, the first three squandered on his resistance to losing his self-imposed solitude, the last spent losing himself in wonder at being set free of it; after all his struggles to achieve something resembling a normal, human relationship with a woman who was worth the struggle, it was all to end just as it had begun. Alone.

But teetering at the cusp of despair, his mind latched on to another time in his past when he was similarly alone and slated for termination by his enemies. He had played his last card. Cut off from any Agency assistance, he was forcefully escorted, hands bound behind him, to a helicopter waiting to take him to his place of execution. Then, he recalled tenderly, just as he was entering the chopper, out popped an unlikely face from behind a nearby car, and that plucky den mother armed with absolutely nothing sprang out from her hiding place, pointing her fingers and yelling, "Freeze!" Amanda had tracked him down, and supplied him his own, personal miracle that day.

For her sake, he would not despair. As long as he still lived, he would wait for his chance to escape, or die trying.

Sadovsky returned after thirty minutes, as promised. He was accompanied by two other men, armed to the teeth and not feeling talkative. With a grim smile, Sadovsky said, "You have had time to consider what I said. Can we arrange a deal?"

Lee shook his head. "No deal."

Sadovsky said nothing, just lifted his chin toward his associates and turned away. The others descended on Lee. Rough hands released the leathers on his arms and pulled him to sitting, where his wrists were efficiently and tightly bound behind his back with rope. The movement wrenched his injured shoulder, and he arched his back and cried out through clenched teeth against the stabbing pain that cut through him. On a good day, he might have made an attempt to take on simple two-to-one odds, but this was not such a good day. He was pulled to stand, and realized his knees would have buckled under him if the two goons weren't holding him upright. His head spun with vertigo, and the pain from whatever happened to the back of his shoulder was strong enough to turn his stomach. They permitted him to stand still, panting and regaining his bearings for a moment before he was led out of his dank cell and down a dim-lit corridor to an exit that opened to a multi-stall garage.

There, he was pushed into the back seat of a black luxury sedan with tinted windows idling near the door, one man seated on either side of him, sandwiching him in between. A third man sat behind the wheel, dressed jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt, of all things. Sadovsky did not join them. He stood outside the car, issuing orders in Russian to the two toughs in the back. He caught Lee's eye once more, and tipped a pseudo-apologetic salute toward him. Then a black hood was dropped over Lee's head, and he could see nothing more.

He couldn't see, but he could feel the car turning corners, accelerating and braking as he was driven through the metropolitan area. He heard the rumble of semitrailers they passed, telling him they had moved to the interstate. There was no conversation in the car, and no room to make any moves to escape. His head still throbbed terribly, as did his back. He had no idea what kind of chemical cocktail his captors had been injecting into him, nor for how long, but he could feel the after effects in his inability to focus his attention for very long.

The minutes passed by and Lee found himself lulled into a daze by the steady drone of the car. His mind meandered between dreams and memories, finally settling on that particular morning three weeks ago when his marriage went public. His Amanda, his beautiful, brilliant wife, had held him in her loving gaze as they sat lingering in his car down in the Agency carport before work. She had just very nearly persuaded him to let down his guard and come clean to Billy with the true nature of their partnership. It was no secret Amanda was ready to lose the double life. She had been hinting lately, broaching the subject with increasing frequency and equally increasing tenaciousness.

Lee was at that time, and still was now in certain respects, loath to risk exposing those he held more dear than himself to baggage from his life that might compromise their lives. How often had he claimed mastery over fear? Yet, Amanda was leading him to see that maybe it was fear, not reason, dictating the choices he made more than he ever realized. He had to admit, her persuasions were gaining traction. He was so weary of living on the fringes of his married life. Then she delivered the coup de grace.

In a rush, the words fell from her mouth. "Lee, I'm late."

She had spent almost the entire drive making such an adamant case for him to take their mystery marriage out of the dark. She was so earnest in her desire to end the ruse without a further delay. It was a wonder he didn't grasp her implications sooner.

He stared at her, oblivious, at first. "No, you're not," he objected blithely. "Beaman doesn't need you today, and we're not due to meet Billy till nine. We've got plenty of time." He let go of her hand to check his watch, just to be sure.

She paused, hesitated, and smiled. "Lee," she began again softly, her husky voice cracking with her trepidation. "I'm not talking about work. I'm talking about us." Then she waited, watching him with dancing eyes and quivering lips while his confusion lifted and understanding took hold.

He stared at her for another beat. "Um, how late?"

"About two weeks."

His lungs deflated like he'd been punched, and though he opened his mouth, no words would come out. But he was a man of action, so he reached for her instead, held onto her arms, stroking them absently while he searched her face for confirmation of what he already knew was true. Finding it in her expansive grin, he finally croaked, "B-but…how?" He reddened instantly. "Oh, Amanda, did I say that out loud?"

Amanda's smile faded. "Oh no. Lee, are you upset?"

"No!" he protested emphatically, momentarily hating himself for giving her such a boneheaded, kneejerk response. He enfolded her in his arms, clasping her tightly to himself, his lips brushing her hair as he struggled to redeem himself. "God, no. Not at all. Amanda, I just…You and I are…" His voice caught and he stopped, trying to find a way to articulate what he was thinking. Her hair tickled his nose and calmed him with its fresh, lightly floral scent that was so uniquely her own. How he wished he was the kind of man who possessed words for the jumble of feelings swirling in his head, each claiming primacy. He was shocked, but happy. Yes, definitely happy. He drew a ragged breath and pulled away enough to rest his eyes on her dear face. Something in his expression must have convinced her of his joy, because her smile had returned, and her dark eyes were laughing at him. God, he loved her.

"I-I'm…just surprised, is all. I didn't think this would…" He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I mean, I've dreamed of something like this happening for us, but I never really expected we could be…so…normal…" He fell back in his seat, his eyes moist and a smile finally cutting through the shock. Looking heavenward, he exclaimed breathlessly, "My wife is pregnant."

Amanda peered up at him with a playful smirk on her lips. "Those are four words I'll bet no one ever thought they'd hear from the mouth of Scarecrow."

"Least of all, Scarecrow," he growled, grinning wolfishly and drawing her into his arms, hungrily claiming her lips with his. For once, he dismissed any concern about witnesses to his overt display of affection for his partner. In an instant, everything in his life was reordered and new. In that moment, his perspective had shifted on its axis.

* * *

The car bounced over uneven terrain and eventually turned sharply and ground to a halt. Lee jolted awake, surprised he had drifted off during the drive. He waited in his seat until he was prodded to get out. This time, the dizziness was less, but all his limbs still felt heavy and slow. He was led, stumbling, up a gradual incline on a bed of moist, leaf-covered soil, about twenty feet or so before a tugging at his arm prompted him to stop. Silence followed.

Lee stood swaying on legs that felt like rubber. The morning chill prickled the exposed skin of his arms, and seeped through him to his blood. He felt wasted, sapped of his strength, numb, but he knew his last chance had arrived. If some attempt at preventing his demise was to be made, it was now or never. He licked his cracked lips and called loudly through the occlusive hood, "Can I have a last look?"

First, there was only more silence. Then he felt the shape of a silencer-equipped handgun pressing into his back. Behind him, the man in possession of the gun muttered, "Don't move." Then the hood was lifted from his head and he took in the sight before him.

He was standing at the precipice of a bluff overhanging the reservoir some thirty feet up. The sky was faintly pink low to the east with the promise of sunrise looming near, and there was a gray mist rising off the water below. A great variety of deciduous trees, just beginning to show their autumn colors, grew thickly all around. Sadovsky was right. It made a beautiful spectacle.

His obvious break lay in front of him, a thirty-foot jump, while still partially drugged, into water of uncertain depth with his arms useless to keep him afloat. The odds weren't good for survival, but definitely beat waiting to get plugged in the back up here. There was only the complication of having time to jump without being shot first. The thug behind him had the gun held point blank. Lee set his jaw. He had no more time to choose a better moment. He focused what little energy he could muster and stared into the mist that lay below.

"Headlights! Who is it?" hissed one of the Soviets from further back, causing a stir among the three men.

The tough holding the gun to Lee turned his head, and that was all the invitation Lee needed. He sprang forward and hurtled himself over the bluff, praying the water was deep. He hit shoulder first and descended into the murk, the staggering coldness of it sucking his breath from him. Down he dropped, precipitously, all the way to the bottom, knocking his already injured shoulder against the edge of a rock, and losing some more air with an involuntary groan of pain.

He quickly found the muddy floor of the reservoir with his feet and pushed up. He broke the surface of the water, gasped in as deep a breath as he could muster, and with a grunt, thrashed onto his back. He couldn't easily maintain the posture with his arms still tied behind him. Again and again, he slipped over facedown, his head re-submerging each time. With painstaking effort, he resurfaced, sputtering and coughing, and applied every last ounce of his strength toward scissor kicking his legs a couple of times, propelling himself in the direction of the shore.

Somewhere in the midst of his struggle for breath, he remembered there were still men with guns up on the bluff who wanted him dead. Just making it to shore wouldn't be enough if the trio came on down to finish what they started. He had to stop all this thrashing about and play a convincing drowned man. He kicked one last time toward the shore. Then, hardly daring to hope, he stretched down a foot, tentatively, as far as he could, gauging the depth to the reservoir floor. To his relief, his head was not entirely under water when the toe of his shoe scraped rock before sinking an inch or two into thick mud. Writhing his torso and bouncing on that foot just a few short inches closer to the shoreline, he gained further leverage, and stopped. There, standing on tiptoe and leaning against the muddy bank with his face uplifted until his ears were submerged, he could breathe. It wasn't much, but it would keep him alive for a while.

Something pelted the water uncomfortably close to his head. For a moment, his gut clenched in anticipation of the next one, which could only strike him directly, but it didn't. Instead, he heard a few more pelts into the water, but more distant. It was almost enough to make him smile. Under the cover of the overhanging bluff and the lingering mist on the water, he was invisible to his assailants. They were aiming at the wrong spot. Only a single bullet had hit close to him by chance.

Two rounds of bullet spray from a semiautomatic pistol fell, and then all the shooting stopped. A single, heavier splash hit the water some ten or so feet away, approximately in the place he had jumped. He twisted to see what the bad guys were launching now, and saw only a bag. It was a single, plastic, shopping bag filled with something. Clothes. With the halting laughter of a man who was relinquishing his hold on sanity, he recognized a sleeve that was drifting out of the waterlogged bundle. He knew that gray cashmere flecked with black. He distinctly remembered donning it about this time of day for a much-anticipated interview. Was that just yesterday, or had he been held captive longer than that? He still didn't know.

Atop the bluff came the rumble of an engine starting, revving mightily, then dimming and fading away. Then came silence, except for the cries of water fowl from across the waters and the drone of a distant airplane. "Mission accomplished, eh?" he muttered. He set his sights above on the discouragingly steep bank of the reservoir. Now was the time to seek out a new impossibility, a place where he could hope to crawl out onto dry land before his battered body finally failed him.


	9. Chapter 9

Almost Home

Chapter 9

Hunched in the leather office chair that occupied his time almost to the exclusion of the overstuffed easy chair at home his wife had given him last Christmas, Billy Melrose made no attempt to stifle an enormous yawn. He leaned on his elbows and listened on the phone to the incoming duty liaison officer from the INR at the State Department with as much attention as he could muster at this hour of the morning. He had already spoken with two other officers of the State Department since he had trudged into The Agency two hours ago, and he had essentially repeated the same information each time. Now, on the third round, he was growing tired of hearing his own voice. It was still too early to chance coffee given his propensity for heartburn, and he was too keyed up over his M.I.A. lead agent to stomach a sweet roll. He was not a man much attached to the creature comforts when duty demanded sacrifice, but any way you looked at it, 3:00 a.m. was a brutal start to a workday that had ended at 9:00 the previous night.

"Yes, that's the gist of it," he spoke wearily into the phone, pulling himself to a more upright position in his chair. "It seems your Galen Pratt has some connection to Yan Sadovsky at the Soviet embassy, and we've confirmed James Albertson was up to his gills in it. Good luck getting anyone over there to own up. The one we have in custody is in surgery right now, and won't be fit for questioning for a several days, at least." He raised his eyebrows and added wryly, "If ever." He paused, listened to the reply, nodded. "Yes, yes. Everything I have is from Mrs. Stetson's report of her conversations with Carolyn Pratt and this Markin fellow. I'm leaving the Pratt woman on ice for now. I've got to locate my missing agent. It's getting pretty damned tight, Paul."

Across from Billy's desk, Amanda sat rigid in her chair, arms crossed tightly in front of her, holding her elbows, and watching Billy anxiously. She was listing back and forth slightly, but whether that was a greater reflection of fatigue or worry, Billy couldn't easily tell. He had offered her a room to bunk down in until more information was obtained, but she had declined. He had offered her coffee, but she merely shook her head and turned away with a look of distaste. Perhaps early-morning heartburn was a problem for her, too. All she had accepted from him were jumbo pretzel sticks. He had a canister of them on his desk, and she had helped herself to them, one at a time, until they were nearly gone.

In the first hour since Amanda and Francine had returned to The Agency, Billy had arrived and immediately put Francine at the head of a Delta Code Red search and rescue team to respond to the Dunbar Reservoir tip. He had given explicit directions to his assistant. "Blanket the area, but don't let anyone know you're there. If you spook them, they're liable to go and dump Scarecrow somewhere else."

"Got it," Francine replied brusquely. She had gone back out with the first team to set up surveillance at each point of entry of the reservoir. She appointed six pairs of ground agents as well as a solo ultralight pilot who would provide the bird's eye advantage as soon as there was sufficient daylight to allow him to go up. Each pair and the pilot were outfitted with a long-range radio device, a sniper rifle with adjustable scope rings, an emergency rescue/medical kit, and a homing system. Amanda had followed right on Francine's heels until Billy snagged her and ordered her to stay behind for what he firmly insisted was a highly necessary, immediate debriefing.

Since then, Billy had listened grimly to Amanda's chronology of the evening's events before instructing her to stay in her seat while he made the necessary calls. He started with his own superior, Dr. Smyth, simply an information update. He chose to place that call first, less because of its priority level than its disagreeability. He downplayed Amanda's unauthorized field work within inches of blatantly lying, with good success, in his opinion. It was a blessedly brief call that didn't manage to sap too much of his patience. That was a rare gift.

Next, he placed his initial State Department call to the INR overnight duty officer to inform her of the information he had relevant to the James Albertson investigation. The call was longer, more involved, and more diplomatically sensitive. That call had led to two others, each one lasting longer than the one before. When Billy finally hung up the phone for the last time, he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and regarded Amanda from under heavy eyes. But a trace of a smile was hiding under his moustache.

"We're in luck," he reported with equal measures satisfaction and relief. "The State is less concerned about our interference than I had expected them to be. In fact, they are grateful for your work in identifying a witness to the bombing, and bringing in the KGB agent alive. They sound like they're ready to collaborate with us. If Galen Pratt really does have any classified documents he got off Albertson, we'll have to work together to get to Pratt ahead of the Soviets."

His smile disappeared as his eyes assessed the woman sitting in front of him. She was listening attentively enough, but her customarily animated features wore a mask of tepid detachment. With Lee's status so tenuous, this was already hitting Amanda on the home front. And now she was reeling from tonight's trauma, taking out an enemy agent and nearly taking a hit herself.

After any agent's first shoot-to-kill, it was Billy's policy to put that agent on temporary restriction pending a thorough debriefing with both himself and the house psychiatrist. And yet, here he sat, knowing all this, and still seriously contemplating sending her even further into the fray.

Billy was backed in a corner. He needed Amanda on this case. The INR was even asking for her by name. Officially speaking, the only obstacle to her continued service was a matter of discipline, a verbal reprimand for withholding information from her field section chief. Off the record, he wondered whether he was acting in good faith, turning a blind eye to the feeling that he was placing demands on her shoulders that she shouldn't be asked to carry.

He brought his fingertips together, tented them under his chin, and began to settle on his course of action for dealing with her. "Amanda," he began pensively, and the crease in his forehead deepened. Her wandering gaze snapped back into focus at the sound of her name. "I know you have a lot on your mind right now," he said quietly, "and I know we have a crisis on our hands, but before I even consider allowing you a place in this, we have a matter to discuss that won't wait."

"What matter, sir?"

He dropped his hands to his desk and leveled his most stern gaze on her. Keeping his voice low and even, he said, "How about the small matter of your utter disregard for following protocol tonight?" He paused for effect and watched her shift uncomfortably in her seat. "Right now, I have good reason and half a mind to pull you off this case and put you on suspension. Would you care to explain yourself?"

Only for a moment her mouth dropped open, and then she protested, "Sir, I am very sorry I wasn't entirely truthful with you. I was only thinking of who might know anything about what happened to Lee. When you said The Agency couldn't investigate Mr. Albertson, I was afraid maybe Galen Pratt was too close, so I thought if I just checked things out alone, you know, off the record, on my own time, that would keep the Agency out of it and it might be in everyone's best interest—"

"You got ambushed tonight, Amanda, at close range. It's a miracle you weren't shot. Would that have been in everyone's best interest?"

Her eyes dropped, looking at her hands in her lap. "No, sir," she mumbled. To her credit, she made no further excuse. When she looked up again, she met Billy's eyes with an inscrutable gaze and held it. He knew that look. He had seen it so many times from this side of the desk, on the faces of so many agents. She wasn't arguing, but she wasn't convinced of her error either.

Billy regarded her through narrowed eyes and pressed further. "Maybe you don't quite understand me, so I'll make myself clear. I teamed you with Francine for a reason, Amanda. I intended her to serve as your senior agent and your backup. You put yourself in a very dangerous situation tonight, and you left Francine not knowing what she was walking into." His face contorted in exasperation while his voice rose with his emotion. "And what gets me is you know better than that. You've been keeping Scarecrow from pulling just this kind of stunt for years now. It's reckless conduct, pure and simple. Tell me, would Lee approve of the way you handled this investigation tonight?"

If his aim had been to banish Amanda's poker face, he was successful. She smarted visibly at the last of his words and caught her breath. Then, with eyes brimming with tears, she whispered, "No, sir."

The evidence of her chagrin wasn't lost on Billy. He pursed his lips and handed her a tissue, his expression softening. "I'm not angry with you, Amanda, as much as I'm disappointed," he sighed. "I may be your section chief, but I consider you and Lee my personal friends. Do you really think I would do anything to impede your efforts to find him? Haven't I gone out on that limb enough for you to trust me? If you have a hunch, I want to hear it. I don't want you sneaking around, trying to hide it from me, like I'm…well, another Dr. Smyth." He rubbed his forehead with a hand and sank back in his chair. "I count on you to keep me in the loop. So don't disappoint me."

Amanda dabbed at her eyes with her tissue and frowned pensively. "I know. Yeah, I know that. I'm sorry, sir. I guess I must be disappointing you a lot lately."

His head snapped up, and his hand dropped. She was looking away, avoiding his gaze, her face clouded with remorse. Billy shook his head in wonder. "Amanda, I hope you're not referring to your elopement with Lee." He smiled sadly, noting she wasn't denying the idea. "Sure, I wish you two hadn't kept it away from me for so long." He chuckled to himself. "Mostly, I just felt foolish when you and Lee came in here that morning and laid it all out. Here I'd been dropping not-so-subtle hints to Lee almost every day to get off his duff and tie the knot, all but accusing him of being chicken. And he let me! I never suspected he'd done the job months ago. I probably should have known. It would be like Lee to draw a heavy line like that between this business and his business." He regarded Amanda warmly. "I'm still surprised he managed to convince you to go along with such a crazy scheme. You do know marriage licenses are a matter of public record—"

"Yes, sir, you've said so before."

"Well, no matter. I'm talking strictly about Agency business, Amanda. Your personal life I'll leave to your own discretion. Does that help?"

For the first time in almost a day, a spark of her usual good cheer lit her face. She smiled and replied, "Yes, it does. Very much."

"Come on." He rose abruptly to his feet and crossed the room to where his jacket was hung in a narrow wardrobe. He plucked it off its hanger and swung it over his shoulders. "Grab that mobile set over there and let's get down to the motor pool. I think it's time we joined Francine on search and rescue."

Amanda leapt up, needing no further invitation. "Oh, yes. Let's go."

* * *

Daybreak was almost upon them. Above the treetops overhanging the county road that wove its way around the reservoir, the sky was fading from black to gray, with pale swaths of yellow and pink filtering upwards from the eastern horizon. At ground level, it was still quite dark under the thick overgrowth of trees. It looked peaceful and lonely. It was hard to imagine that tucked off the road at certain key points were federal agents, heavily armed, and watchful for any early morning visitors to the locale.

Amanda gazed impassively out the passenger window. Billy had been driving them randomly around the reservoir and back, sometimes up and down the gravel extensions off the main road, for the past hour. Aside from the occasional radio activity of Francine and her teams reporting their findings, or lack thereof, the drive had been a quiet one.

They were back on the primary reservoir road and the darkness of night was seguing steadily into the golden dawn. Never before had Amanda experienced a lovely sunrise as an omen of doom. It was getting late, too late. She closed her eyes for a moment at the disheartening thought, and the others that followed. Maybe she had misunderstood Markin's information. Maybe the plan had changed since Markin and his henchman hadn't returned. Maybe the tip had been a false one from the start. As much as she dreaded to even consider it, she knew in her heart that all this effort to rescue the man she loved could, in the end, prove too little, too late.

Absently, she glanced at the rearview mirror outside her window. A flash of headlights caught her eye and at least temporarily quelled the dismal projections assaulting her imagination. She looked at Billy with a question in her eyes, but he was watching the road, giving no indication of having seen anything.

Amanda turned and looked over her shoulder out the rear window. Sure enough, a car had turned off the main thoroughfare they had just passed, and was continuing in their direction at a relatively slow rate. She looked at Billy again. "One of ours?"

He shook his head. "That's someone new to the party." Indicating the radio with a nod, he added, "Call it."

"Harvest team, this is Landlord. We have a new vehicle traveling north on Dunbar Road, joined us from Route 224. Who sees him?"

A static-laced response sounded almost immediately. "Copy that, Landlord. He is passing Hennipen Corner, Harvest 3, over."

Francine's voice, tense and clipped, came next. "We'll track him from behind at the North maintenance access. Harvest 1, over."

They drove in silence for a few more minutes, rounded a steep incline and descended the other side. Amanda faced the rear of the car, tracking the vehicle behind them, losing sight of it only when they had crested the hill. They reached the bottom and passed the maintenance access where Francine and Agent McCarty sat. The unidentified car still hadn't appeared over the top of the hill.

"Sir," Amanda said in a rising pitch, gripping the headrest of her seat tightly.

"Give them a minute. I'm slowing up."

He slowed to a crawl, and still no headlights appeared from over the hill. "Tell them we're turning back the way we came," he muttered. Amanda immediately complied, while Billy made a u-turn in the middle of the road and picked up speed.

He reached the top of the hill again, and to Amanda's horror, the car was nowhere in sight. "Where did it go?"

Billy pulled to the side of the road and grabbed the radio. "Landlord to Harvest 3, did our man double back your way?"

"That's negative, Landlord."

"Should we close in? Harvest 1, over."

"Stay where you are, Harvest 1," Billy commanded, then muttered a curse to himself under his breath. His eyes met Amanda's. To her, he said, "We're going to go very slowly. We're looking for anything, a dirt path, a pair of tire treads. You look out your side, I'll look out mine."

Amanda nodded, and Billy pulled back out onto the road and continued forward at a crawl. They had gone less than a tenth of a mile when Amanda cried, "Here! Look."

The place she indicated was little more than some vaguely flattened grass, but it appeared level enough and wide enough for a car to pass. It did appear to have tire treads in the mud off the shoulder of the road running perpendicular to the road itself. Billy turned slowly onto the grassy path that led into the woods. He grimaced, then shrugged. "Here goes nothing." Carefully, he maneuvered between the trees into the relative darkness and stopped when he reached a small clearing near the top of a steady incline.

Amanda picked up the radio again. "Harvest team, we are pulling off road at the top of the hill to check things out. Keep an eye out for that car. Landlord, over."

"Amanda, why don't you go back and set up a couple of flares to mark where we entered for the others?" Billy said. "They're in the back."

She took the flares and walked back down to the road, activating them as she drew close. She had placed the second one when a series of sharp cracks from deeper in the woods startled her. Pale and wide-eyed, she stood frozen, her gaze following the stream of light from Billy's headlights, willing her eyes to pierce the darkness to the source of what she knew to be gunfire.

"Get back in here!" Billy shouted, the last of his words lost under the roar of a high-powered engine gunning to life.

She ran for the car at once, sneakers slipping on the wet leaves underfoot as she climbed uphill, until she reached the door Billy had thrown open and she tumbled inside. She yanked the door closed behind her just as the glare of an oncoming set of high beams came bearing down on them. Passing close enough to scrape against Amanda's door with the screech of nails on a chalkboard, a dark-colored sedan roared alongside them from out of the darkness. It jolted violently over the uneven terrain, fishtailing dangerously, until it pulled onto the road with a squeal and continued back the way it had originally come.

Billy and Amanda reflected each other's stunned expression, each with shaking breaths and racing hearts. "Are you okay?" Billy demanded.

"I'm fine. Which way do we go now?" But she was already peering into the dim, gray wilderness ahead of them, answering her own question.

Without replying to Amanda directly, Billy seized the radio. "I have gunfire up here. Harvest team, scramble. Repeat, scramble. Harvest 3, the vehicle is headed your way at a high rate of speed. Track him—black sedan with passenger side paint damage, D.C. plates, two, possibly three subjects. Harvest 1, you'll get here first. Watch for the flares. We're going in. Landlord, out." He turned to Amanda to find her already out of the car and partway up the incline ahead of them.

He caught up with her at the crest of the hill, which leveled off at a steep out-jutting of rock overhanging the waters of the reservoir. The sun was a golden ball just over the horizon, dissipating the remnants of nighttime mist below. Amanda was kneeling at the rim of the bluff, her knee in the moist dirt, fingering a number of warm, spent shells she had collected in her palm.

"Amanda?" he spoke quietly, approaching her slowly.

She lifted her head and her eyes were glistening as she offered him her prize. He took the shells from her hand while she pulled herself to stand. Her lips were pressed tightly together, hands pushed deep into the pockets of her jacket. "Too late," she whispered, and she turned away.


	10. Chapter 10

Almost Home

Chapter 10

The outrageous irony of it all is what hit Amanda the hardest. The purpose of the plan was to keep everyone safe. So how could following the plan have taken such a disastrous turn?

Lee was a great field agent, patently respected even where he wasn't liked, and pleased with his work in spite of its incompatibilities with a domestic life. The hours were demanding and unpredictable, difficult for a family to navigate. The elaborate web of lies the two of them had woven to protect Mother and the boys also threatened to alienate them. The physical hazards were frequent, grave, and never sufficiently compensated. But in spite of it all, Lee loved his work. Amanda knew he did, and when he first suggested resigning it she was sincerely aghast.

Following their disclosure of the marriage to Billy and his subsequent grilling of them for all the particulars, they had retreated up to the Q Bureau and flopped down side by side on the couch. Amanda was still basking in the welcome reprieve of secrets set free when Lee gave voice to his intention.

She just stared at him at first, dumbfounded. When she had recovered herself enough to formulate a reply, she blurted, "But this is what you do. Isn't that what you always tell me? Lee, I can't even imagine you in any other line of work."

"I'll find something."

"But why? It doesn't have to be all or nothing. You heard Billy. He's ready to support us. He's willing to help you keep off the foreign duty roster and the more dangerous assignments. He agreed we're a package deal and we work together. He even gave me his word you'll never do another peacock dance as long as you live. We can finally be partners and be a family at the same time. Why quit now?"

Lee cast a long, sideways look and a doleful smile her way while he waited for her to finish her diatribe. At the end of it, he simply shrugged. "Maybe we've been trying too hard to have it both ways."

"What?!"

He took her hands in his and studied them, caressing them gently. "I guess I figured it would come to this eventually. Our worlds…" He paused and grimaced, hesitating before he lifted his eyes to hers and revealed his dramatic conclusion. "Well, they don't mix." Before Amanda's spluttering protest could leave her lips, he hastily continued, "Aw, Amanda, just think about it. This business is no place to raise a family."

At that moment, she wasn't sure whether she might laugh at him or scream. In lieu of either, she drew her hands away and perched them on her hips as she crested a hot wave of indignation. "Well, I guess it's a little late now, Lee Stetson! If you thought it was impossible to mix family and business, just what would possess you to marry a suburban mom like me? You of all people know I've been juggling both worlds since the day we met at that train station. So what's changed? Now, after four years, my family is your family, too. Yes, I know that scares you. I understand. But I'm in this as deep as you are, and I'm still moving forward, and you can too. We're in this together, buster, for better or worse. Right?"

She hadn't finished speaking her mind before Lee stood up and turned on his heel, filing a hand through his thick hair. And for a long moment, he remained in that spot in silence, facing the window a few paces away, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he turned to face her again, his expression had turned to stone except for the telltale twitch in his jaw, while his hazel eyes widened in a devil-may-care look of nonchalance. Amanda cocked an eyebrow at him in return, an unspoken question, and made no other reply. She knew better than to let herself be baited. Her husband was nearly paralyzed with fear, and if her keen understanding of the man hadn't informed her, his next words to her did.

"There's too much at stake here," he declared flatly. "It's not just you and me in the field anymore." As her silence lengthened, his hands emerged from hiding and began to slice the air with his agitation, the well-practiced Scarecrow façade rapidly crumbling apart. "Don't you see it? I put myself out there every day, and so do you. We're human bull's eyes. And we watch each other, yes. But my God, Amanda, now there's another life we have to consider." He waved a hand at her to emphasize his point. Then his voice faltered. "And it's not the same as—" He cut himself off sharply, sucked in a breath, and dropped both hands to his sides, resigned and vulnerable.

Amanda knew her place. She rose quickly to her feet and came to him, wrapped her arms around him and held him, her anger spent. For the first time, she could see with startling clarity the extent to which his participation in their joint family life was tearing open old wounds he had long concealed. Certainly she had caught glimpses of them at every major holiday, how his impulse even now was to steal away from the inner circle, stand by on the periphery, never get too close. Reminiscent of their early years of working together, he still kept his station on the outside looking in, figuratively if no longer literally. Lee had spent decades taunting fate with his life, and maybe that was just backlash against the losses of so many of the most important relationships he had known. And now that his own safety was no longer a matter of relative indifference to him, had Amanda been so blind not to see his daily struggle, allowing himself the forbidden luxury of forging bonds with a ready-made family? And now he was facing a brand new member, a helpless infant for whom he undoubtedly assumed an unparalleled responsibility.

"I know," Amanda murmured, aching for him. She squeezed him a little tighter and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sweetheart, I know."

After a minute, he drew another deep breath. With his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her face, he began again, quietly. "It's not that I don't love Phillip and Jamie like they're my own. You know I do. But they'll be the first to tell you, they have a father. If anything happened to me now…"

"Lee—"

His eyes were dark with his troubles when he lifted his head and met Amanda's soft gaze. "I can't risk it, Amanda. Not now. I can't risk leaving you alone."

She felt the tears flood her eyes as they clung to each other as though their lives depended on it. How long they stood that way, Amanda could only guess. Afterward, she didn't dare challenge him any further. That night, Amanda proposed finishing her current coursework and remaining a level two agent. The next morning, Lee approached Billy about the State Department offer. It was a joint solution that could neither please nor satisfy either of the Stetsons. But in the end it would be worth it, because no one would get hurt.

* * *

Amanda propped herself against the hood of somebody's car, one of the agent's, she didn't know who. She had her arms wrapped around herself, uselessly warding off a chill that came from within and blinking away the encroaching drowsiness that swam in front of her eyes and made her nod. The sleepiness was almost a relief. It stilled the maelstrom of worry, frustration, and grief that had been brewing over the past twenty-four hours.

The sun was almost glaring in its brightness by now. All around her were well-meaning people, just trying to help. Agents were assembling climbing gear and descending the bluff to the rocky shoreline below. Agents were tracking through the woods, collecting possible evidence of Scarecrow having been there. The hum of an Agency-requisitioned motorboat could be heard faintly from across the reservoir, joining the search party and poised to make a heroic water rescue. Crackling radio discourse kept sounding every few minutes, with Francine standing nearby, coordinating the effort.

They were trying so hard to accomplish what Amanda herself could not, the retrieval of Lee Stetson, dead or alive. The horror of the anticipation, the not knowing, was such that she wished it would be over, one way or another. Wryly, she realized this probably shared a similarity to Lee's state of mind earlier in the year when a stray bullet had nearly taken her life only a few days into their marriage. It was so much easier on the mind to be the one dangling on the edge of life than to be the one helplessly watching his soul mate teeter. She smiled humorlessly to herself. "Payback," she murmured.

Her fatigue had dulled her senses enough that she didn't notice Billy's approach until he was next to her, joining her in leaning against the hood of the car. He didn't speak immediately, but cast her a few tentative, sidelong glances. Then, with a short nod in the direction of Francine, who was now conferring with a pair of agents near the rim of the bluff, he said, "It gets you feeling like a fifth wheel around here."

Amanda blinked and turned her head to him.

He smiled tightly. "Francine's becoming pretty efficient." His smile reached his eyes as Amanda smiled back appreciatively. "I was thinking," he began again after a moment, "I have a few things that could use my attention about now back at The Agency. I think Francine has this operation well under control. Why don't I bring you home on my way back? You ought to check in with your mother, get some rest." He observed her hesitation. "Please, Amanda. There's nothing more either of us can do here right now."

She was quiet for a while, mulling over the merits of his suggestion. Bringing her mother up to date was a task she shouldn't delay much longer. She hadn't bothered to check in since she had left home last night, not wanting to alarm Mother with an early morning phone call only to report virtually nothing. Mother would undoubtedly have a barrage of questions to which Amanda would have no answer. In the end, she shook her head slowly. "Thank you, sir. You're probably right, but I can't leave. I know I can't do anything, but Lee is down there somewhere, and they're going to be finding him pretty soon, and I want to be here when they do." She stopped and gazed thoughtfully toward the reservoir. Then she met Billy's eyes in flickering glances and added wearily, "No matter what happens."

Billy watched her with a strange look on his face. Then he smiled warmly. "Not many of us in field section are lucky enough to find a partner we can count on no matter what. For what it's worth, I don't think I've ever known a man as lucky as Lee. You're as rare as they come, Amanda." Awkwardly, he placed a hand on her back and patted it twice.

With tears in her eyes, she leaned in for a brief embrace. They were interrupted by Francine, who approached them breathless, calling Billy's name, radio clutched in her hand. Her already large eyes were round with excitement.

"Billy!" she cried once more when they looked up. She darted a quick look at Amanda, smiled pensively, and turned back to her superior. "Water Crew thinks they have something."

"What do they have?"

"It's a…" she paused and looked again at Amanda before addressing Billy again. "They have recovered a bag from the water, sir…"

With eyes narrowing in growing irritability, Billy had his mouth open to prompt her to get to the point, but the radio unit in her hand crackled to life again. He fell silent immediately, and the three of them stared piercingly at the object, clinging to every word.

"Ground Crew to Harvest 1, we have found Scarecrow." Then, carefully annunciating, the voice said again, "Repeat, we…have…Scarecrow."

Francine and Amanda exchanged looks, as Amanda's hands flew to her mouth. With no little impatience, Billy took the radio from Francine's hand. Tersely, he demanded, "What's his status, Ground Crew?"

Then they waited. It was an interminable amount of time before an answer was forthcoming. A silent prayer echoed in Amanda's mind, _please let him be okay._ She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. A lump caught in her throat. At last, the blessed reply was given.

"He says to tell you he's cold and wet." Their eyes met for just a moment before Francine released a rush of breath and caught Amanda in a fierce hug. Billy nodded wordlessly, lips pressed together, and he turned away from the two women for a moment, collecting himself. The radio report continued, with a hint of laughter laced in the speaker's voice. "And if that was the interview, he doesn't want the job. He's a little banged up, so we're giving him a status yellow, just to be safe. Request NEST transport to intercept us at Northpoint Landing, about a half mile or so further on north from here. We'll ferry him by boat, over."

Billy drew a deep breath and answered the rescue team. "We'll have your transport waiting." He returned the radio to Francine with a tip of the head, and she, smiling broadly, retreated to her car to call in the ambulance. To Amanda, Billy added solemnly, "Code yellow."

Her eyes were sparkling when she looked at him. "Injured, not life-threatening," she affirmed. "Sir, can we get down to Northpoint and be there when he arrives."

"You bet, Amanda."

* * *

Cold and wet didn't begin to describe it, Lee pondered as he lay still, resting his eyes and his exhausted limbs, passively allowing a myriad of hands to haul him from the water onto a Plexiglas backboard, secure him with more of those blasted straps, and lift him aboard a waiting motorboat. No sooner had they cut him free from the ropes binding his wrists, they were tying him right back down again. But he couldn't resist those hands if he wanted to, his body numb with a cold seeping into his core, chilled beyond shivering. He felt stiff and absolutely spent.

His mouth still worked fine, though. Without cracking open an eye, he muttered, "Can we lose the straps, guys?"

"Sorry, Scarecrow." He knew they'd say that. "Not until the paramedics check you out and give you the all clear for any spinal injury."

"My spine's fine," he complained, waggling his feet a little as evidence of the fact. "My shoulder hurts. My butt hurts. My spine is just fine." He felt the motion of the boat turning and then accelerating. From the motion and the angle he was lifted, he knew he was facing the stern.

"You're probably right, but we'll follow procedures just to be safe."

"How far to the dock? This board is killing me."

"We'll be there in just a few minutes, Stetson. Just hang in there."

"Did you guys get that bag with my clothes?"

"Yeah. It's here."

"Is my wallet in there?"

"Believe it or not, yes."

"How about forty-five bucks in cash? Is that still there?"

"Hm, no. No cash."

Lee scowled. "Figures. Commies." He cracked open his eyes. They were speeding over the undulating water at a pretty good clip, leaving a white-capped trough in their wake. Glancing side to side, he could see two other guys in the boat with him, McCarty and Ungerson. He knew them in passing from the second sublevel bullpen. Young guys, still pretty green. A third man must be up front, driving. The wind had picked up with their speed, whipping Lee's hair and rippling over his skin. Between clenched teeth, he growled, "Damn, it's cold."

One of the guys next to him answered, with a crooked smile, exchanging looks with the other agent. "I'm afraid we got this rig on the fly, Stetson. All I've got are life vests. Just hang tight. They'll have blankets at the ambulance."

A moment of silence except for the hum of the motor passed. "Do I look okay?"

The man's expression turned openly incredulous. "You're alive, man! What the hell do you care how you look right now?"

Self-consciously, Lee grinned at him. "I think my wife will be at the dock." His grin widened. "Don't want to scare her or anything. So, do I look like death warmed over or what?"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Here," interrupted the other guy, leaning over Lee with a moist piece of fabric, the tail of Lee's own dress shirt. He rubbed it back and forth a few times over the left side of Lee's face, having a modicum of success mopping up streaks of mud from alongside his nose to his hairline. "I won't say you're looking your best, but I'm sure Mrs. Stetson's going to be happy just to see you alive."

Lee regarded the agent with interest. Blake McCarty, he recalled. He was a second-year rookie, good on the shooting range, sensible in the field-distinctly more sensible than Lee was at that age. "Have you ever met Amanda?"

"Sure have. I think everyone in field section knows her. Everyone sure knows her baking." He grinned and glanced at the other agent beside Lee. "And she's generous with it."

Relaxing visibly at the pleasant thought, Lee returned the grin. "You bet she is!" he said proudly. Another moment passed and a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He became suddenly serious. "I never knew someone like that could exist," he reflected, more to himself than his companions, "so amazing…beautiful…full of life. Best thing that ever happened to me." He drifted into a quiet daze for a while before a shake of his uninjured shoulder and McCarty's commanding voice jarred him alert.

"Stay with me, Mr. Stetson. We're almost there."

"Got it," he mumbled, understanding. They didn't want him falling asleep yet, not knowing the extent of his injuries. "Hey, McCarty," he added with only a hint of anxiety, "Do you know if Amanda's around here somewhere? Have you seen her?"

"I didn't see her myself, Mr. Stetson, but I know she was up on the bluff. She and Mr. Melrose were the ones who called the search from that point. Don't know how they found the place. It's pretty remote."

With a startled flash of recognition, Lee remembered the timely diversion that allowed him to make his jump. "Headlights," he murmured groggily, closing his eyes and surrendering the fight against the enticing pull of slumber.

"We're here," announced the agent piloting the boat, pulling next to the dock and tossing the mooring line to one of the waiting NEST paramedics. "We've got some hypothermia here. Better get him warmed up quick."

"What's that?" McCarty was saying offhandedly to Lee as he helped the others haul the backboard up onto the dock.

Lee smiled to himself and summoned the image of that fearless den mother from years ago, brandishing her pointed fingers and unflappable nerve, his own, personal miracle. "I should have known."


	11. Chapter 11

Almost Home

Chapter 11

The ambulance ride back into Arlington and the excursion through the emergency room of Galilee General remained a blur to Lee, even weeks after the fact. He was mostly awake, but dazed and only minimally aware of certain details of the time period. He remembered, first and most clearly, receiving Amanda's arms around him in the back of the ambulance, and trying to apologize for being unable to lift his arms to embrace her back or to keep his eyes open. He remembered her tears, but whether they were brought about by relief or dismay or something he said, he couldn't be sure. Later, he remembered awakening somewhat to the trio of Amanda, Billy, and Francine standing around his stretcher. Amanda's eyes looked sunken and red, and she was so terribly pale. The sentiment was less than romantic, but Lee was certain, then, that Amanda needed rest more than togetherness, and with almost edgy firmness, he insisted she leave him alone and let Francine take her home to get some sleep.

Now, some five hours later, he found himself staring absently out his hospital window overlooking the emergency department parking lot and wishing he hadn't been so adamant. Reasonably cleaned up, warmed, and freshly rested, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to feel Amanda's familiar weight in his arms and just breathe her essence. No treatment his doctor supplied could cure Lee of the stinging regret of loneliness for his wife. Good intentions notwithstanding, he probably hurt her feelings, sending her away like that. If she didn't return until morning, it would be his own damned fault. He blew out a long, weary sigh while he contemplated the telephone, standing just out of reach on the overbed table. Medical people must take delight in leaving things just out of reach.

Whispering on its hinges, the door slowly pushed open behind him. He didn't bother an attempt to roll over. Most likely it was another nurse coming in to check under his bandages. His entire backside ached with burns that had required attention of the most unappealing and humiliating kind. His right arm was held suspended in a sling, supported by pillows, to alleviate the pain of a hairline fracture to the shoulder blade. Together, his injuries made turning both a cumbersome and painful activity. No, remaining here on his left side was good enough for whoever just came in. Right now he was wrapped up enough in misery he didn't much care whether it was the KGB come back to finish him off.

"Are you up for visitors?"

"Billy," he answered glumly.

Shoes on vinyl tile padded around the bed and stopped in front of him. He noted the three-button sweater vest underneath the gray jacket, a smooth bulge curving over the belt like a lump of pizza dough at Lee's eye level. His plump section chief pulled up a mauve cushioned chair and sat down, bringing his dark, concerned eyes into Lee's line of sight.

"How are you holding up? You look better than when you got here."

"You know I hate hospitals. I want to go home."

Billy let out an impatient huff. "It's not like they're keeping you forever, Scarecrow, just till morning." He was answered by a grunt. "Maybe it's not ideal, but it's for the best. You have blood work to clear. We still don't know what those goons gave you yesterday." He pursed his lips for a moment. "And you need the antibiotics Dr. Shah is giving you for those burns. You don't want an infection." Lee wasn't making any reply beyond a withering glare, so Billy tried another tack. "Why don't you sit up and watch a ballgame or something? When's the last time you got to do that?"

A glower further darkened Lee's striking features. "I can't sit," he muttered with no little resentment.

Billy cleared his throat. "Ah, well, I guess those burns would make…uh…"

"Never mind. I'm not going to like it, but if I have to stay, I'll stay. Just tell me about this case. What the hell happened with this 'Alexander' character I was supposed to meet?"

Billy straightened and jumped eagerly on the opportunity to distract Lee from his woes. "Your drop man's real name was James Albertson. The State pulled sort of a low blow on us and chose not to tell us Albertson himself was the suspected mole. They figured it was safe because he would want the letter badly. They were intending to watch and see what he did with it after the drop."

"Why the bomb?"

Billy frowned thoughtfully. "That one is still speculation. It would appear Albertson was using the blast as a diversion to facilitate a KGB-led escape from the country. A dummy ambulance and crew was planted before the bomb blew, presumably to intercept Albertson. Instead, Albertson was shot by someone else. The KGB crew got you by mistake. It gets foggy at this point, but we have two names: Galen and Carolyn Pratt."

Lee's eyes narrowed and gleamed with attentiveness. "Carolyn. That was the woman I met, the civilian. She called the man 'Lenny.'"

"Her pet name for her brother, Galen."

"What's the connection?"

Billy sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Good question. So far, Amanda's come up with Albertson as a close family friend of the Pratt's, and Galen as something of an unintentional accomplice to Albertson's espionage activities. Albertson has served as a mentor to Galen in the cryptology department at the INR. At this time, Carolyn is in our custody at the Agency, but she's not saying much. And Galen hasn't been heard from since the bombing. That alone makes him more suspicious. And then there's Sergei Markin."

"Who's Markin?"

"The KGB agent Amanda apprehended when she came to take Carolyn in for questioning last night."

Lee's eyebrows shot up, his lips curling in a smile that was both delighted and incredulous. "Really? She did that by herself?"

With a hand rising to rub his brow and a clearing of the throat, Billy replied hesitantly, "It wasn't clean."

"Gunplay?" The smile was gone.

"Markin was attempting to strike a deal with her when his partner ambushed them outside Pratt's apartment. Markin was shot. He's hanging on by a thread in the ICU right now." He looked up again and met Lee's gaze somberly. "Amanda took out the shooter, Lee."

For a moment, Lee was silent. He closed his eyes and leaned back against his pillow. When he opened them again, he was staring past Billy, his thoughts distant. "She shouldn't have been alone."

"She was looking for you. Was I going to stop her?"

"She didn't tell me anything this morning."

"She was worried about how you were. I doubt it was first on her mind."

Lee's eyes snapped back into focus and he sat upright slightly, pushing up on his left arm. A scowl on his face and an accusing finger pointing at Billy from out of the sling, he growled, "She is almost—_almost_—a level two agent. I don't want her in field work without a senior agent, and I don't want her anywhere near retrieval operations. This never should have happened."

"Yes, sir," Billy intoned dryly, shooting him a meaningful look. "But maybe you didn't hear me, Lee. I told you, she was looking for you. I gave her a senior agent, and she chose to go in alone. Maybe you've taught her a little too well, hmm? She seems to be borrowing from the old Scarecrow playbook."

Lee dropped back onto the bed again, hand to his head, lines deepening across his brow in tandem with his growing agitation. "I can't believe she'd do something like that…now. What was she thinking?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but maybe you're overreacting a bit. She handled herself remarkably well under the circumstances. She managed to extract information from Markin while he was conscious, information that saved your skin, incidentally—"

"Hand me the phone."

"No."

Lee blinked. "No?"

"Not if you're going to go calling her in this frame of mind. What's the matter with you, Scarecrow? Amanda made the conscious decision to respond to this little crisis as Scarecrow's partner, and she did it with almost flawless professionalism. Now you, the seasoned agent, are charging onto the scene like an overprotective husband."

Without a trace of humor, Lee bared his teeth at the ceiling. "Maybe I have a reason."

"Maybe you do," Billy conceded. "Care to fill me in on it?"

Lee stared at him, silent, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I believe we've had a conversation about what might happen in this sort of situation, Scarecrow. About three weeks ago, I was assured by both of you that your personal ties would in no way compromise your professional work, that you were very well capable of keeping the two hats separate. Are you saying this isn't the case?"

"No," he protested.

"You don't trust her in the field without your personal supervision?"

"Billy…"

Rising to his feet, Billy demanded, "Then what's your hang-up?"

The answer lay on the tip of his tongue, burning to come out. But Lee had promised Amanda he would wait, and he couldn't break trust with her. Not even now. He met Billy's fierce gaze, stubbornly and helplessly mute.

They were both startled out of the impasse by the closing of the hallway door. Billy looked up and met the deep brown eyes of Amanda, who stood against the door, clutching a tote bag and her purse in both hands. With a soft smile, she said bluntly, "I'm pregnant." Her eyes darted away. "I'm sorry, sir. We were just waiting until after this weekend to tell anyone." In the swollen silence that followed, only the whir of an intravenous pump could be heard in that room.

* * *

"I suppose before I say anything else, I should offer you my congratulations."

Amanda searched Billy's face and demeanor carefully, and as far as she could tell, he appeared more tired than upset. He dropped heavily back into the chair next to Lee. With a start, Amanda quickly joined them, setting her load down next to the bed and leaning over Lee with a small, nervous smile, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. Much to her relief, Lee seemed to immediately lose the tension he was so obviously carrying when she had entered the room. He looked up at her with a grateful smile gracing his lips, and his eyes flickered subtly downward, inviting her without saying a word to sit next to him on the bed. So many times, words were superfluous between them.

"Yeah, sorry we dropped that on you, Billy," he was saying, while Amanda obliged him and sat down. "It's just, with the move happening Saturday and the ceremony and all, Amanda really wanted to wait until everything was somewhat settled before dropping the next bomb."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "Have any others for me?"

"No more," Amanda replied. "I promise."

Blowing a sigh from puffed out cheeks, Billy shook his head. "This puts me in a spot, you know."

"Why?" Lee asked.

"The INR wants Amanda on their inter-agency TAC team set to recover Galen Pratt and possible classified documents in his possession."

"Absolutely not!" Lee exclaimed, tension filling his body once more. "I told you, no retrievals. And you don't even need me to tell you. Agency policy says as much."

"Lee…" Amanda began gently.

"No, Amanda. I mean it. No more putting yourself in the line of fire."

"I wouldn't necessarily be in the—"

"You wouldn't necessarily be out of it, either, would you?"

For a moment, Amanda hovered on the verge of further argument. She frowned thoughtfully into her husband's face and changed her mind. Turning again to Billy, she said, "What do you think, sir?"

Billy leaned forward and pressed his fingers to the inner corners of his eyes. "Let's just stick to what's practical and immediate. Right now, I have Carolyn in custody only until morning, and then we have to let her go. She's protecting her brother, so we haven't got anything about where to find Galen…yet. Amanda has built something of a relationship with the girl, so perhaps she can try her hand at questioning her. Is that acceptable to you, Scarecrow?"

There was sarcasm in the question, but Lee ignored it. "Of course. But then what?"

"I don't know. It depends on what she gets out of the Pratt woman."

"I'm going to be there too."

"You're here until morning. I need her questioned tonight."

"That does it," Lee declared, swinging himself upright and planting both feet on the floor, prompting Amanda to rise quickly to her feet to give him room. He immediately regretted the move. His lower back and rump jointly protested with a shock of stinging pain. "I'm getting out of here," he grunted through clenched teeth, dangerously eying the IV that was anchored to the back of his left hand. "Where are my pants?"

Amanda clamped a hand down on his shoulder. "Now wait just a minute. You're not leaving unless the doctor says it's okay." His mouth opened and she quickly cut him off, stabbing at him with a scolding finger. "Don't argue with me, Stetson. I'm going to question Carolyn. That's all. I won't do anything else without telling you the plan first, and if you say no, that's too dangerous, then I won't do it."

"Amanda…"

"Do you trust me?" She stared at him with her almond-shaped eyes, deep and candid, irresistible.

Lee hesitated, grimaced. "Yes," he finally muttered begrudgingly, allowing her to plump his pillows and gently press him back down onto the bed. The taut muscles of his jaw fell slack in resignation. "You know I trust you with my life, Mrs. Stetson."

"Then trust me with mine, too," she murmured, bending to tuck in his feet and pull up the covers before settling herself next to him again. Amanda's soothing touch was working its magic, he realized, feeling himself melt into a calm and placated state as she smoothed his hair away from his forehead with a cool and delicate hand.

They had all but forgotten Billy's presence, though he was still sitting within arm's reach next to them, until he cleared his throat and rose to his feet. "Well then, if that's the plan, I'm going back to the Agency. I'll meet you there shortly." He tipped his head to Amanda with evidence of thinly-suppressed amusement twitching beneath his moustache.

"Yes, sir."

Billy hesitated for a moment at the door, watching the pair until they noticed and regarded him questioningly. Rocking on his heels, he said, "For the record, I really couldn't be happier for the two of you. Lee, you'll make a fine father. I think maybe you're ready to rise to a new kind of challenge."

Speechless, Lee simply nodded and looked down.

"If you'd rather keep this quiet a while, I respect that. I won't share your news until you make it official."

"Thank you, Billy," Amanda said tremulously, her feelings expressed most eloquently in the rare usage of her superior's given name.

He smiled broadly. "Just don't try and wait another eight months like you did with your marriage. I guarantee it won't work." And chuckling to himself, he departed.

Amanda smiled after him, but when she looked down again into the face of her partner, she found his hazel eyes boring into her with the intensity of a pending inquisition. Choosing to disregard him, she said sweetly, "I brought you a set of pajamas and your slippers."

"You didn't tell me about last night," he answered pointedly.

Her eyes dropped quickly, evading him. "You must have heard about that, huh?"

Smiling sadly, he released a short breath. "Yeah, yeah I did. Why didn't you tell me? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Lee. It just wasn't something either one of us was up to talking about in the ambulance, and I haven't had a chance to talk to you about much of anything yet. I wasn't keeping it from you, if that's what you're thinking."

Lee shifted a bit toward his back and took her hand in his, watching his thumb pass over each knuckle in turn, back and forth. Her hands were so slender, so subtle. It was hard to imagine them gripping an Agency-issue pistol and knocking off rounds with a deadly aim. Like an iridescent blending of two distinct images, she merged the suburban homemaker and federal agent roles with an uncanny grace which Lee found impressive and a little bit dismaying.

"I'm sorry, Amanda. I'm sorry it had to go down like that. I know how you feel about shooting another person." His eyes lifted tentatively and met hers. "But I'm not sorry you did it." He studied her fine features, her soft brown eyes holding his gaze steadily, her rosebud mouth curved upward ever so slightly. She never ceased to surprise him. She adapted herself to whatever demand fell upon her, from the accommodation of her boys' schoolwork, to the reintroduction of her ex into their everyday life, to her metamorphosis into a skilled operative capable of putting a handgun to effective use as the need arose.

"I had to protect myself and the people who were with me. There was no other way. I know that." With a soft sigh, she sank back onto the bed and reclined beside him, nestled with her back against him and her head tucked under his chin.

"Have I told you lately what an amazing woman you are?"

"I don't think so. You should be more careful not to neglect important things like that."

"Speaking of, did you bring my toothbrush?"

"Of course, and your special comb, and a few other goodies I think you'll appreciate." She smiled to herself with satisfaction. "There's some contraband in a tiny little flask in the inside zipper pocket."

"My goodness, Mrs. Stetson, I do believe you are fully corrupt." Lee chuckled softly, and for a while they laid together in companionable silence.

"There's only one thing that's really bothering me about last night," Amanda said in a soft rasp, her voice only a shade above a whisper.

"What's that?"

"The other man who got shot. Sergei Markin." She tilted her head toward Lee. "He was wounded badly and probably dying, and all I cared about was getting information from him first." She shuddered a little. "I didn't think I could be so…cold."

"It wasn't cold, it was practical," Lee counseled firmly, his voice a low rumble against her temple. "In an emergency, you don't have the luxury of being sympathetic. You were putting the demands of the situation above your feelings, and that's not a bad thing. It's what an agent needs to do. When you're in civilian mode, you do things differently. What you did do ended up saving my life, and you kept your two detainees and yourself alive. You did a good job." He stopped long enough to lift his head and press his lips to the hollow of her cheek. "I'm proud of you, partner," he whispered in her ear, lying back again.

"I definitely wasn't in civilian mode."

"Nope."

Amanda snuggled in closer beside her husband, feeling his breath warm on her cheek where his lips had been. She watched the second hand of the wall clock sweep evenly over the numbers and she sighed. "Lee?"

"Yeah?"

She twisted around to face him more fully. "I don't want to go. I finally have you back, and now I have to leave you again."

He gazed into her plaintive face and smiled softly. "Close one, huh?" He leaned in and planted a kiss lightly on her nose. "Go do what you have to do. Just come back as soon as you can, Mrs. Stetson. Okay?"

She nodded and kissed his mouth. "Count on it, Mr. Stetson."


	12. Chapter 12

Almost Home

Chapter 12

When Amanda opened the door to Debriefing Room B, she had to wince at the pitiable sight of Carolyn Pratt. The girl was seated behind the conference-sized table with her cheek against its polished wood surface, her curly ringlets lying all around her head like a haphazard collection of compression springs. Billy had been kind to at least deposit her in a spacious room with comfortable, cushioned chairs and a pot of fresh coffee, but it didn't matter much. Carolyn still appeared as miserable and dejected as though she were in any standard prison cell.

Amanda made her way across the room and around the table to sit in the chair next to her subject, while Carolyn's deep blue eyes, open and blinking, refrained from acknowledging her with so much as a glance. She tried to imagine what Carolyn must be feeling now. She must be frustrated about being stuck in this situation, and probably worried about the condition of her friend, Sergei Markin. Certainly she was anxious about her brother, and maybe angry with Amanda in particular for the part she played in causing her troubles.

It reminded Amanda of the time several months ago when Jamie had been nursing a lot of hurt and frustration over a series of stressful changes, the imposition of his long-absent father and then his mother's boyfriend into his life, and the subsequent loss of Amanda's relatively undivided attention. What he had needed most was someone to talk to who knew his situation, who could offer him understanding and some reassurance. Amanda bit her lip and regarded Carolyn thoughtfully.

"We found Mr. Stetson, Carolyn," she began quietly. "He's in the hospital right now, but he's going to be fine." Carolyn still didn't look at her, but she closed her eyes momentarily, and Amanda knew she was listening. "I know you must be sorry you ever called me right now, but I want you to know…" She stopped, hearing the hitch in her voice, and steadied herself with a deep, measured breath. Now Carolyn was looking at her, and she lifted her head enough to set it more comfortably on crossed arms. Amanda began again. "I want you to know I'm grateful, because you and Sergei saved his life. What you did mattered."

Amanda and Carolyn watched each other intently, and as Amanda tried to read the younger woman's state of mind, another idea occurred to her. "I checked on Sergei's condition before I came here. He's out of surgery." Carolyn slowly lifted her head from her arms, her eyes widening, her interest clearly piqued. "He's stable, but it will be a while before he wakes up." Amanda looked away, uncomfortably aware of how close to her own history her words were landing. "He may not remember what happened at first, and he'll probably have a lot of pain and be very weak. He'll need a lot of therapy to get to where he was before. It's going to take a lot of time and it won't be easy."

Carolyn's mouth opened, lips trembling, but it took her a moment to finally utter the words she was trying to say. "Y-you mean, he…he's alive?" Her eyes welled over, and when Amanda nodded and smiled reassuringly, a choked sob escaped the girl. She lunged at Amanda, throwing her arms around her, and cried hard.

For a while, Amanda simply held her, stroking her hair and murmuring soft reassurances like she used to do for Phillip or Jamie when a bad dream woke them in the night. It was such a peculiar thing, to find the simple wisdom of skillful mothering applying so aptly to a federal intelligence agency's interrogation. While Amanda had already rather known Carolyn had a personal allegiance to the young Soviet agent, she had not anticipated this level of attachment. From appearances, Carolyn was in love with the man. It was an intriguing idea, and the only reservation Amanda felt in exploring it was from knowing that in the next room, Billy, Francine, and an agent of the State Department were listening to every word she and Carolyn spoke. They would undoubtedly call into question her interest in matters irrelevant to the retrieval of either the classified documents or the subject's brother.

Once Carolyn had composed herself and blotted her face dry, Amanda set aside her misgivings. Regardless of whatever criticism she might face, she made up her mind to explore the topic she sensed Carolyn would be much more willing to expound on than the whereabouts of Galen Pratt. It may not yield what was most obviously desired, but Amanda never rejected information as useless without giving it a thorough examination. And sometimes the less obvious way was the shorter path to a breakthrough. Experience had proven her right often enough.

"Carolyn, I can see you care about Sergei very much. Is he someone you've been dating?"

At that, the girl smiled and emitted a short laugh. "That would make perfect sense, wouldn't it? The American college student romantically involved with the enemy agent who'll get shipped back to Russia either by reassignment or deportation at any moment, never to be heard from again. It's such a silly idea. Hopeless."

"But is it true?"

The smile wavered. Slowly, she replied, "No. No, not really. I think we were both thinking the same thing. Maybe if he wasn't a Soviet agent and I wasn't the daughter of a CIA chief. It sounds like something out of Romeo and Juliet, doesn't it? I think we both knew it was hopeless." Her smile turned wistful. "It never stopped me from caring about him, though. And he was always looking out for me. When you came last night, he was there to warn me his partner wanted to use me to get to Galen. He was trying to help me get away. That's why he wanted his gun so badly. He was ready to throw away everything for my sake. He was ready to commit treason." She ran her hands over her rumpled curls, smoothing them. Then she cocked an eyebrow at Amanda and said wryly, "Maybe we are like Romeo and Juliet."

Amanda could only shake her head, fascinated. "How did you ever meet this KGB agent anyway?"

Carolyn grinned, a lovely smile that lit up her face. "He was a student in one of my classes. He told me he knew Galen from outside of school. He never did say from where. We used to talk before class and after class. Before long, we'd talk all the way to my next class. He told me he took the name 'Adam' to fit in his American classes better, but then he told me his real name, and he seemed to like it better when I used it. He told me all about growing up in Russia, and about his family." Her eyes took on a distant look. "Then Galen started giving me messages to pass to Sergei. That's the first I knew about Sergei's secret life. Galen told me the messages were State Department business, that Sergei was a KGB agent, but he was a double agent. He was really working for the United States. And he told me Uncle Jim was a triple agent, only pretending to help the Soviets." She shifted uncomfortably and stared at her hands clasped on the table. "I felt like I was part of something exciting and important. It was like the stuff our dad was doing before he—" Abruptly, she stopped. She continued to look at her hands.

"Before he was killed," Amanda finished gently.

Carolyn nodded. She looked up, and some of her earlier misery was reflected in her expression. "I believed them, all of them. I was such an idiot, because everyone was lying, in the end."

* * *

"Nice work, Amanda. You managed to get her singing like a jaybird about her love life, her childhood, practically everything except her brother. I don't think that technique of yours has a name, but Conner and I came up with 'The Tearjerker.' What do you think? Fitting, or over the top?"

"Can it, Francine."

Billy's eyes flickered to the ceiling. He wasn't surprised to find his stock response to Francine's cutting witticisms failed to remove the smug grin from her face. She merely pursed her lips for a momentary pout before slipping in one last dig.

"We may not recover the documents, but we've got compelling testimony to grant Sergei Markin U.S. asylum should he request it."

The four of them, Billy, Francine, Amanda, and Agent Douglas Conner of the State Department, crossed the broad central corridor of sub-level four of The Agency. Each was nursing his or her disappointment with the end result of the interrogation of Carolyn Pratt in characteristic form.

Amanda resisted the impulse to hang her head, for Francine's benefit. "I'm sorry, sir," she addressed Billy. "I thought maybe talking about Markin first would make her more willing to open up about Galen. And I still don't think scaring her would do any good."

"You might be surprised," Conner muttered with a dubious glint in his eye, rolling one meaty hand into a fist in front of him.

"She is not a criminal and she's not another agent," Amanda shot back hotly, stopping short and facing the visiting agent squarely. "She's a kid, a civilian who got into something way over her head through no fault of her own!"

"Sure, if you take what she says at face value."

"I do."

"And that," Conner proclaimed, "is why your line of questioning failed. You don't trust anything out of the mouth of someone playing both sides of the fence."

"She is not—"

"Rein it in, people!" Billy barked, long exasperated with the matter. He was grateful they had reached the bullpen and his office. He could very soon escape the party. "Amanda did a fine job, and she did obtain information neither of you was able to squeeze out of the girl. It may be secondary information, but it's still better than anything we had before. Francine, you can assist Conner getting back to his car. Amanda, you're free to go home. I'm going in here," he pointed to his door, "and I'm going in alone."

Francine dutifully turned on her heel after a curt nod to Conner and led him to the elevator up to the parking garage. Amanda could tell from her bearing and her neglect of a parting word that Francine was deeply frustrated. Who could blame her?

Only once did Amanda attempt to engage Carolyn in a discussion of her brother. She tried to convince Carolyn of the Agency's interest in protecting him from others who might be willing to kill for the stolen documents, but Carolyn had already given the matter plenty of consideration. She was surprisingly evasive when it came to Galen.

"I don't know where he is," Carolyn said evenly. "I haven't seen him or spoken to him since yesterday morning, after the bombing."

"That's right. You drove him in your car. Where did you take him, Carolyn?" Amanda asked. Carolyn was silent. "Please tell me. Even if you don't want to tell me where he is now, at least give me an idea of what he has in mind. What kind of documents did he take?"

"I have no idea. I really don't."

"What does he mean to do with them?"

She leaned her elbows on the table and pressed her fingers to her brow. "He means to give them back, but since it looks like he's suspected of espionage for the Soviets and murder of James Albertson and bombing a building, he'll probably just destroy them instead. I know he's not planning to sell them or anything like that. He's not a traitor. The whole reason he went after Jim Albertson was to stop him from selling the documents to the KGB. He didn't mean to get mixed up in anything illegal, and he's not going to come out now knowing he might be thrown into jail for the things Jim was doing."

Amanda blew out a long breath. "Carolyn, would you believe me if I told you the goal here isn't to trap Galen? What happened last night proves there are bad people trying really hard to get to your brother, and they'll be ready to use you as a piece of bait as long as he's in hiding. I don't think either of you wants that. Don't let the bad guys find him first. I know you want to protect him. We want to protect him too. Please, can you just tell me where you took Galen after the bombing?"

She wouldn't speak at first. Amanda watched her for a while, waiting. It seemed like a terribly awkward silence before Carolyn finally lifted her eyes and smiled cryptically at Amanda. "You know, I missed my organic chemistry lab today because of Galen." She mulled around a thought for a moment longer before she continued. "If I do answer your question, will you let me make a phone call? I need to check in with my lab mate so he doesn't worry about where I am. Will you let me call him?"

"You'll tell me where you took Galen?"

Carolyn nodded solemnly, the smile gone.

"Then yes. You tell me where you took him, and I'll see you get to make your phone call."

Relaxing visibly and smiling with gratitude, Carolyn replied, "It was Dulles."

"Dulles?" Amanda repeated, feeling her heart sink. "The airport, Dulles? Where at Dulles did you leave him?"

"It's probably still on the security cameras. I took him to gate C. He took a duffle bag out of the back seat, hugged me goodbye, and said he'd get back to me when he could. That was about 8:40 a.m. It's the last time I saw him."

Amanda tried to smile while she secretly hoped the information was worth what she had promised the girl. She excused herself to go next door and hear what Billy had to say.

Francine was already on the phone, and Billy looked positively grim. "The C gate is primarily international flights," he grumbled. "The man could be anywhere by now. He had the time, the contacts, and the tools to forge any number of identifications. Francine's getting a line on the security tapes now. Maybe we can find out which flight he took. That's assuming he went straight from Carolyn's car to his waiting flight. Otherwise, he could have taken a flight later in the day, from some other gate, or no flight at all. It's anyone's guess."

Amanda winced. "I'm sorry, sir."

In reply, Billy simply waved a hand at her. "Go ahead and give her that phone call, Amanda. You can have her use one of the non-secure, public lines outside Room A. Just monitor her, make sure we know who she's calling. Give me a report on who she called and what she said."

The call had been unremarkable. As far as Amanda could tell, Carolyn really did call her lab partner, apologized for missing their class that day, assured him she was well and safe, and expected to be present at the next class. Amanda checked the telephone trace after Carolyn had finished. The call was made to a young man named Corey in a dormitory room at the university where Carolyn was confirmed registered. Everything checked out.

* * *

A syncopated series of four raps landed on Billy's door, and he looked up from his desk and scowled. He had not been in his seat two minutes and someone else was bringing him their troubles. But he shrugged off the initial irritation, muttering to himself, 'That's why they pay you the big bucks, Melrose,' and called out, "Come!"

The door cracked open, and peering through it with an apologetic grin on her face was his ace homemaker agent.

"What do you have, Amanda?"

The door opened broadly and she stepped inside, pushing it closed behind her. "Sir, I'd like to have Carolyn Pratt released tonight." Billy didn't reply immediately, so Amanda rushed to fill the gap with explanation. "Unless you were planning to have her questioned again before you released her tomorrow. I just thought, if this is all we had planned, maybe we could just, you know, go easy on her and let her get back to her studies. She really didn't do anything wrong herself, and she's already missed two days—"

"Amanda," he interrupted firmly.

"Yes sir?"

Billy weighed his words before he spoke. "Is she on the level? What's your thought?"

"I think what she's told us is true. I also think she's not telling us everything she could be telling us."

"Then what do you think? Does it make more sense to cut her loose early, or should we be trying one more time to get through to her?"

Amanda considered his words. Then a slow smile spread across her face. "Sir, I think we should do both. Why don't I find out if she'd like a ride home?"

In seconds, Billy's smile was as wide as Amanda's.


	13. Chapter 13

Almost Home

Chapter 13

The sun had dropped low toward the horizon when Jamie King coasted up the driveway on his bicycle and brought it to a stop at the open door to the garage. He carefully propelled it between the wall and the Wagoneer, being sure not to ding either, and deposited it in its place. There was plenty of room, since Phillip's bike was missing. No surprise, since Phillip was always staying late after school for things like basketball practice and whatever that service club was that he joined to get an angle on the ever-popular Stephanie Lubrick.

Today Jamie himself was late getting home, but that was due simply to an after-school study session with Todd Bivens three blocks over. They studied math together, which did Jamie no good since Todd couldn't work math calculations to save his life. But Todd had another appeal to keep Jamie coming around. The guy had the most rabid interest in photography Jamie had ever seen, and bragged that if he could wear down his parents just a little bit more, they'd install a darkroom for him for Christmas. Maybe it was a long shot, but it was still a distinct possibility. And just like those kids who reaped the benefits of keeping friends with swimming pools, Jamie was not so proud he wouldn't suck up to Todd a little in order to share in the darkroom bounty.

Jamie headed toward the house, dropping his backpack off his shoulders to hang it more fashionably off just one side. He stopped at the top of the front steps and looked back out toward the street. The streetlights hadn't come on yet, so Phillip probably wouldn't be back for a little while.

It was then, as he was squinting westward into the sun, that he first saw the stranger. A guy on a bike, a streamlined 12-speed painted a distinctive red, gold, and black, was pedaling up the block at a fast clip. He was a young man, with close-cropped brown hair and a lean, athletic form. He looked like a metropolitan bike messenger who had inexplicably crossed over into Arlington to make a suburban run. And as he passed by Jamie, who still stood atop the front steps, he smoothly arced to the right and pulled up onto the driveway. He peeled around in a tight curve so he faced the way he had come and stopped short.

The man waved an arm and flashed an easy smile as he swung off the bike and walked toward the house. "I have a special delivery. Do you know Amanda Stetson?" As he spoke, he unzipped his lightweight jacket and removed a 10x13 envelope from inside. He stopped at the base of the steps, holding the envelope in both hands.

"That's my mom."

The man nodded. "Good, good. I need this to get to her right away. Is she home right now?"

Jamie shook his head. He was inches from the door, and he had a good set of lungs on him for hollering, but the stranger made him nervous anyway. It wasn't that he seemed particularly threatening. But learning recently about his mother and step-father's true line of work had Jamie's imagination running on overdrive. He wondered whether the bike-riding stranger was a Soviet. Maybe he even carried a gun. "My grandma's here. Do you need someone to sign?"

"Nah, that's alright," the man replied smoothly, seemingly untroubled. "This isn't for anyone but your mom. It's work-related, if you know what I mean." His words were light, but his blue eyes were watching Jamie intently, as though to read whether he did indeed know what he meant. Jamie felt butterflies in his stomach. After a beat, the man continued. "It's for the government part of her job, so that means it's very important."

"Oh." Jamie swallowed.

"Do you watch football?"

"Football?" Jamie quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "Uh, sure. I watch."

The man nodded thoughtfully and smiled to himself. "I figured. Listen, when the quarterback passes the ball, and the wide receiver catches it, what happens next?"

"I guess he runs with it until he either makes a touchdown or gets tackled."

"Exactly." The man stepped forward and pressed the envelope against Jamie's chest. "Take it," he said. Then he smiled tightly at the boy. "You're the receiver. Get this to your mom, because if it gets intercepted by the other side, our team loses. Got it?"

Jamie thought he could actually feel the hair on the back of his neck stand upright. Where the hell was Phillip? "You take it!" he cried, pinching the envelope between two fingers and holding it away from himself like a set of used sweat socks. "I don't want it."

"There's no time, kid," the man replied, backing away. He threw a sweeping glance up and down the street before turning a keen eye on Jamie once more. "This is the end of the line for me. I don't plan on getting sacked." And winking conspiratorially at his unwilling ally, he swung back onto his bike. "When you see her," he called, "tell her I'm sorry for all the trouble I gave Mr. Stetson yesterday." He sped off in the direction from which he had come before Jamie could think to ask his name.

"Hey!" called a familiar voice, a mere minute later. Jamie still stood frozen in place on the front step, unsure of what to do next. He turned to the voice, and there was Phillip, still straddling his bike in the driveway and looking at Jamie with an expression that was both perplexed and exasperated. "What are doing? Who's that guy you were talking to?"

In the few seconds it took Jamie to collect his thoughts, a flash of anger took over. "You just couldn't have come home five minutes ago, could you?"

"What's this?" Phillip jogged up the walkway and reached for Jamie's burden.

"Give it back!" Jamie pulled away from Phillip's curious hands, guarding the envelope under his arm. "It's for Mom. We've got to call her."

"She's at the hospital visiting Lee. Why don't you just give it to Grandma until she gets home?" Phillip pushed past his younger brother and opened the front door. "Just bring it inside for now."

Jamie stayed rooted where he was. "I can't. I think it's really important Mom gets this right away. I don't want to give it to anyone else."

Bemused, Phillip stood just inside the house and regarded Jamie with growing impatience. "Are you going to just stand outside with it until then? Come on in the kitchen and let's have a look."

Reluctantly, Jamie came into the house and closed the door. Grandma must have heard them. From upstairs, she called, "Is that you, Jamie?"

"It's both of us," Phillip announced. "All right if I get into the chips?"

"Not before supper," came the reply. "We're eating in 30 minutes, so you boys stay out of the snacks."

"Okay, Grandma," they chimed together, tramping from the front hall into the kitchen.

Once inside, Phillip snagged the envelope away from Jamie and immediately began unwinding the string-tie closure on it.

"Stop it, Phillip! It's top secret!" Jamie yelled in a whisper. It was hard to do, whisper and yell at the same time.

"Look at this," Phillip crowed, undeterred by his brother's protests. "It's re-sealable. Let's just check it out and we can put it right back together again. No one even has to know."

Jamie grabbed his arm. "What if there's a bomb in there or something?"

Jerking his arm away, Phillip completed his unwinding and gently peeled open the self-adhesive flap. He peered inside the opening and turned matter-of-fact eyes to Jamie. "No bomb." He turned the envelope over and carefully shook its contents onto the kitchen counter. "Let's see what we have here."

The two boys stared at their find. Phillip lifted a piece of ordinary typing paper folded in half and inspected a lot of lines of apparent nonsense typed on it. Then he turned to Jamie and their eyes met. "Kind of a letdown, isn't it?"

"What is this stuff, anyway?" Jamie asked, picking up two sheets of white stock paper sleeves with rows of what looked like film negatives embedded in them.

Phillip shook his head and frowned. He lifted a plastic cassette tape box and opened it, finding four miniature tapes inside. "I'd like to hear what's on these, but I don't have a Dictaphone." He cocked his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Maybe I should ask for one for Christmas this year."

"We're not keeping these until Christmas," Jamie said brusquely, swiping the case out of Phillip's hands. "So now you've seen the stuff. Put it back the way we found it before—"

"What are you boys doing in here?"

The boys' heads snapped upright and they turned as a unit toward their grandma, startled and guilty. "Uh…" Phillip began, but he didn't say anything else because he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't bring greater trouble on his head.

Jamie fell back on bluster. Giving his older brother a stiff shove on the shoulder, he said, "Some guy gave me this envelope for Mom and I wanted to call her and tell her about it but Phillip wanted to see what was in it first."

"You wanted to see, too."

"Maybe a little, but I'm not the one who actually opened the thing up—"

"Yeah, right. You're little mister innocent—"

"—and dumped it out!"

"—Give me a break!"

"Enough!" Dotty cried, throwing her hands in the air. "You are both old enough to know better than to snoop in other people's mail. Shame on you." She picked up one of the stock paper sleeves and held it up to the light. "Who did you say brought this?"

"I don't know," Jamie replied with a shrug. "He didn't say. But he did say it was really important Mom gets this stuff and not anybody else."

No sooner had these words left his lips and the doorbell rang. It was followed by three stout pounds on the door. The two boys and their grandmother exchanged worried glances and stared out the doorway to the front foyer. "Coming," Dotty called out.

"Don't answer it!" Jamie hissed urgently after her. "It might be the Soviets!"

His grandmother favored him with a wry scowl. "I do not think there are Soviets at our front door, but I'll tell you this much, Jamie King. If there are Soviets out there and they want that package, they can have it. I'm not getting shot to death in my own home on account of the federal government." She pointed a finger at the array on the counter. "Now put that stuff back the way you found it." She turned and hurried to answer the door.

The boys stood still and listened. Phillip stalked after his grandma to the front hallway, and in a moment he hurried back to Jamie, wide-eyed and pale. "You're right. It's them," he murmured under his breath.

"Stop it," Jamie scolded. "You're just trying to scare me."

"I'm not kidding. It's two big guys, and they came for the envelope." He raced out of the kitchen again to join Dotty at the door.

Dotty had a smile on her face that was stiff and unnatural. Politely, she asked the two suited heavies on her doorstep to wait there while she retrieved the package they told her had been redirected to them. Then she quietly pushed the door shut and turned to her older grandson. He hadn't seen her look so wan and terrified since that awful day Lee called with the news Phillip's mother had been shot.

"You can't give it to them," Phillip whispered.

"They have guns under their coats, Phillip. What am I going to do? Tell them to come back later?" She shot a sidelong look at her grandson and sighed. "Okay. You get the number for Mr. Melrose. Go upstairs to your mother's room and call him. Look out the window and give him a good description of the car. All right, darling?"

Phillip nodded and hastened to comply. Dotty paused long enough to gather another deep breath and returned to the kitchen. Jamie and the envelope were gone.

"Jamie!" she cried. "You come right back here with that. Do you want those men coming in here, looking for it themselves?" There was no immediate reply, and her anxiety rose another notch. "Jamie?"

"I'm right here." He slowly emerged from the living room, the envelope clutched tightly in front of him. "I wish I could call Mom and Lee and tell them what it is, but I don't even know. Nothing makes sense."

"Give it to me," Dotty demanded, but there was gentleness in her voice. "I know you want to help, but we're not special agents like they are, Jamie. We have to give these people what they want so they don't hurt us. Let Mr. Melrose take care of getting it back. It's not our place."

"I know," Jamie muttered, relinquishing the envelope to his grandma. For some reason, his thoughts at that moment turned to Lee Stetson, the rugged, top rated spy in his life he was only beginning to get to know. He could picture his step-father's face, see both the understanding and the disappointment playing out across his features. What would he say when he found out his wife's son had dropped the ball so easily? "That's alright, son. You did the best you could." He would understand, of that Jamie had no doubt. But it still nagged at him, that unspoken, underlying, undeniable disappointment. It made him want to be brave. It made him want to be a little bit stupid.

His backpack was still hanging off his shoulder, and he swung it around and caught the other strap so it was evenly placed across both shoulders again. He heard the front door slam shut, and after another moment a car motor revved and faded away. Grandma hurried up the stairs after Phillip, leaving Jamie there on the ground floor, quite alone. He glanced once toward the stairs before he chose his course and slunk away toward the back kitchen door. In that moment of reckless decision, he slipped outside and closed the door soundlessly behind him, stepping into the deepening twilight, as stealthy as a spy.

* * *

Seated behind the wheel of the Corvette, Amanda could see Carolyn next to her, stealing furtive glances her way while fidgeting endlessly with a lock of unruly hair. Carolyn had requested to be dropped off back at Galen's apartment, and that was the way Amanda was headed. The trip began quietly, with hardly an exchange of pleasantries between the two women. But after the first few minutes, Carolyn dropped her hair and her guard and the words began to flow.

"You know, nothing I told you was a lie," she began.

Amanda nodded and replied, "I know, Carolyn. I never thought you were lying."

"I wasn't," she agreed firmly. Another moment of silence passed. "But there's something else I have to tell you." She hesitated. "You weren't lying either, were you? Did you really mean it when you said you're not trying to trap Lenny?"

"I'm really not, Carolyn. I just want to find out what documents Mr. Albertson was stealing and get them back to where they belong. I think that's everyone's biggest concern right now."

Carolyn bit her lip. In a rush, she blurted, "Galen really is going to give them back. Today. I told him where to take them."

For one precarious moment, Amanda forgot about the road and stared at Carolyn with a gaping mouth. Then she checked her rearview mirror and made a clean right into the closest department store parking lot. She pulled into a space distant from the store and shifted to face Carolyn directly. "Where is he taking them, and when did you talk to him? You told me you haven't been in contact with Galen since you dropped him off at Dulles yesterday."

"I told you I haven't spoken to Galen, and I haven't. Not directly." Carolyn raised apprehensive eyes to Amanda and added, "But I have been leaving messages for him."

"How, Carolyn?"

"Through his network." She saw the question in Amanda's eyes and grimaced apologetically and continued. "Lenny has a network of contacts, lots of contacts. Some of them are IC, intelligence community, from the State Department, the FBI, the CIA. A couple of them are even KGB. Others are civilians with special access or talents. Lenny knows how to make reliable friends."

Amanda shook her head, both at the unexpected revelation and the familiarity of the concept. "His family," she murmured, calling to mind Lee and his Barnstorm list.

"I guess so. That's a way of putting it. They're a core of people he's been building ties with, some of them for a lot of years." She smiled uneasily, eyes downcast. "I think it's a habit he picked up from our dad. Lenny lived in awe of our dad. He wanted to be an agent just like him. When our dad died, I guess Lenny started identifying with him even more. He didn't just want to be like Dad, he wanted to be Dad."

Amanda smiled sadly. "I think I understand perfectly. But what I don't know is, how did you work with Galen's network without anyone at the Agency knowing? I take it that call you made was part of that."

Carolyn nodded. "Corey really is my lab partner. He also just happens to be a messenger for Lenny. He pages Lenny, and then reports messages back to him whenever Lenny returns the page. What I told him back there was that I'm in good hands, and you're a trustworthy contact. I basically told Lenny not to worry about me, and he can leave the documents with you as soon as he's able."

Amanda's eyes widened. "With me? How does he plan to get them to me?"

"He's bringing them to your home."

"So he's still here in Washington," she mused. "But how would he know where to find me?"

Carolyn shrugged. "He read the address off Mr. Stetson's résumé before the bombing. It's in Arlington, right?"

For an awful moment, Amanda sat in stunned silence while her mouth went dry. Then she exclaimed breathlessly, "Mother and the boys. Carolyn, they're home by themselves. There are teams of Soviets out looking for Galen and these documents, and you had him bring them to my family?!"

Mortified, Carolyn cried, "Oh no! No, I wasn't even thinking of that. I thought it would be a safe place, where no one would bother to look."

"Well it was safe, but I'm not so sure anymore," Amanda moaned, punching in numbers on the mobile phone unit. She dialed her home and to her chagrin, the line was busy. "Carolyn," she muttered crossly, "is there any particular reason you and your brother chose to get everyone in my family mixed up in your problems?"

"Maybe we should go back over there."

"Maybe?" Amanda set down the unit and put the car back in gear. "That is exactly what we're going to do," she grumbled, peeling out of the parking lot at a speed she reserved for only the most special of occasions.


	14. Chapter 14

Almost Home

Chapter 14

The house at 4247 Maplewood Drive was innocently quiet, with the cheery glow of lights illuminating the windows in the evening twilight, when the dark blue Crown Victoria turned into the drive and parked there. Another unobtrusive sedan stealthily pulled up along the curb across the street and a pair of men in dark suits emerged and joined the man and woman exiting the first car.

Billy Melrose closed the passenger door and turned to Francine and the other two agents. "Conner and Thisby are tailing the vehicle the King boy described. The plates are embassy, so let me remind you we're wearing kid gloves. Let's go on in and get the rest of the story for now." He nodded to the two men. "I'll send you two to join the party if the Soviets look like they're headed back to the embassy. So far, they know we're watching and they're stalling for time, leading us on a tour of D.C." He scowled in disgust. "Diplomatic immunity notwithstanding, we're not letting this intel go quietly."

"Yes, sir," answered the driver of the other vehicle, grimly resolute. As a group, the four ascended the front steps of the house. Billy's hand rose to press the doorbell, but his finger never made contact before the door flew open before him. Greeting him in a flurry of excited chatter and animated movements was the petite powerhouse of nervous energy that was Dotty West.

"Oh, Mr. Melrose!" she cried, stepping aside at once and beckoning them all in. "Ms. Desmond, gentlemen, come in right away. I never, ever thought I'd say to a bunch of federal agents at my door, but I am so glad to see you here. Let me take your coats." She began stripping one of the agents of his overcoat before he could properly respond, and practically pulled him into the heart of the home by his collar. "I've been trying to reach my daughter, but the line was busy, and then Joe called." A nervous laugh ensued. "You know, Amanda's ex-husband, but he's still a great friend of the family and an excellent father, whatever his shortcomings might be. Won't you all have a seat? I think there's enough for everyone here in the living room. Coffee, Mr. Melrose?" Billy opened his mouth to decline, but the woman had already turned to the lanky teenage boy lurking in the doorway. "Phillip, would you go check the coffee-maker? Does anyone prefer decaf?"

"That's not necessary, Mrs. West."

"Oh, how fortunate," she laughed again. "I don't think I have any on hand anyway." Pausing only for breath, she continued. "So I started to tell Joe what was going on, with those awful men at our door demanding that package that was for my daughter, but then I remembered what you and Lee and Amanda have told me about 'need-to-know' and I stopped myself right there, because this was really none of his business, was it? I just told him we were having a bit of a situation, but nothing important or troublesome, and absolutely nothing for him to worry about."

The four Agency colleagues exchanged helpless looks, and converged on Billy for the ultimate solution. His eyes flickered heavenward and he sighed heavily. "Mrs. West, I really would like to ask you—" He got no further before the back door swung open and into the kitchen rushed Amanda with Carolyn Pratt behind her. Amanda took in the scene of the four agents in her living room and met Billy's gaze with an expression that was a curious combination of relief and mortification.

"Want some coffee?"

Distractedly, she glanced at her son standing beside her with the full carafe. "No, thank you, sweetheart. Sir, Carolyn told me Galen would be bringing the documents to the house." She shot a questioning look at her mother. "I take it we're too late."

Billy stood up again and approached her. "I'm afraid a pair of Soviet agents got here before us. Your mother and sons did a fantastic job, given the situation. They turned over the package and notified the Agency. No one panicked." His gaze rested alternately on Phillip and Dotty. "We at the Agency appreciate how you handled yourselves. You kept your safety in mind and I couldn't have asked for anything better."

"But we lost the package," Phillip said glumly.

"Oh, Phillip," Amanda commiserated, stroking his rumpled hair. "There was nothing you could do."

"Jamie sure was upset about it, though," Phillip mused. "He was the one who didn't even want me to look in it."

The agents all turned sharpened interest on Phillip. "Did you look in the package?" Billy asked sharply.

Hesitantly, Phillip nodded. "It wasn't sealed," he said, a little bit defensively.

Dotty froze for a split second before turning wide eyes to Amanda. "I told them they didn't belong in there."

"Who was here to receive the package?" Francine wondered. "Was it actually Galen Pratt who delivered it, or did he send a messenger?"

"Jamie was talking to a guy on a bicycle. He knows more about it than I do," Phillip replied.

"Then let's talk to Jamie."

Amanda looked around the room. "Where is Jamie?"

Everyone exchanged looks, while Phillip ran from the living room and out the back door. Billy and the other agents were all on their feet now. Dotty blanched. "Oh, Amanda," she cried fretfully, "you don't think they did something to Jamie?!"

"Mother, they got what they came for. I don't know why they—"

"His bike!" Phillip cried, returning from the yard. "It's gone. He's gone on his bike!"

"Who's gone, Phillip? Are you talking about your brother?"

"Hi, Dad!"

Amanda cringed and turned back to the kitchen door to see Phillip holding it open for his father.

"Amanda!" exclaimed Joe King, stepping hastily inside, his grey trench coat flapping around his legs. "I just had the strangest conversation with your—" His eyes landed on the collection of agents in the next room, with Billy Melrose at the fore. "Oh," he said flatly, turning back to Amanda with a long-suffering sigh. "It's one of these deals."

"Phillip, think hard," Amanda urged, holding her son by his shoulders and suspending a response to her ex-husband for the time. "Where might he have gone?"

His head hanging under the weight of such scrutiny, Phillip mumbled, "He really wanted to tell you about the package. Maybe he went to the Agency?"

Amanda considered his idea doubtfully. "I don't think…I certainly hope he wouldn't try to cross the Potomac on the expressway with his bike…"

Suddenly, Phillip snapped his fingers. "I got it!" he exclaimed. "The hospital. He knew you'd be visiting Lee at the hospital!"

Amanda nodded and turned to leave, but she was stopped by a hand clasped insistently around her upper arm. "I think you ought to fill me in about what's going on here first," Joe said sternly, his deep-set blue eyes fixed on her face. "What's going on with Jamie?"

Before Amanda could answer, Dotty had Joe by his arm and was coaxing him into the living room with her. "I can tell you about it, Joe," she soothed. "Jamie just got excited and broke a household rule. When Amanda comes back with him you can give him the news together, right? Now come sit down here with me and have a cup of coffee. Phillip?"

"Cream and no sugar, right Dad?"

As Joe made a move to settle himself in the living room, Billy caught Amanda's eye and motioned her over with a tip of his head. In a low voice, he said, "I just got word the Soviets are making a break for the embassy with the package. I'm sending in Francine and company right now to help intervene."

"Do you need me to go, sir?"

Billy smiled at her. "I think you already have a mission to accomplish, Amanda." He glanced up at Francine and the two men, who were moving toward the door. "They'll see themselves out."

In all of this, Carolyn stood mute, watching the proceedings and trying to remain unnoticed. She exchanged a covert smile with Amanda, who discreetly slipped back out the kitchen door as soon as Joe's attention was safely directly toward others of the household.

No sooner had Amanda departed, then Dotty turned her effusive hospitality on her mystery guest. "I don't think we've met before," she said to Carolyn, offering her hand. "I'm Dotty West."

"I'm Carolyn Pratt."

Dotty's mouth and eyes opened wider, recognizing the name from Amanda's late-night ramblings. "Oh, _you're_ Carolyn." She took the girl's hand in both of hers. "Let's have you come right here and take my seat. Do you drink coffee, dear?"

* * *

Jamie pedaled with all his might, panting with the sustained effort, on a route that sure seemed a lot more uphill by bike than he recalled it being by car. He pedaled doggedly against a moderate, chilling wind, a rather strong desire to stop and rest, and the growing suspicion that he was pushing himself into deeper trouble with every pass of a gleaming, downtown streetlight. The sky was dark save for the last shades of violet low to the horizon ahead of him, and he was set on a course to break almost every household safety rule in one fell swoop. No biking after dark. No biking across major highways. No leaving home without establishing with an adult where you're going and when you'll be back. Yes, he had pretty much shot every one of them to hell, and his absence was bound to be felt at any moment at home. There was no going back now.

Not until he wheeled up to the entrance of his destination, the sprawling campus of Galilee General Hospital, did the realization fully hit him. This was one stupid idea. He sat on the bike outside the automatic doors of the emergency entrance for a while, contemplating what he would do next. He couldn't just leave his bike outside unattended since he had left in such a hurry he forgot his chain lock. He knew Lee and hopefully his mother were somewhere in the building, but it was a very large place and he couldn't begin to guess where the room was.

Grandma was right. Jamie was a kid, not an agent. He was carrying an enormous weight on his back, one that didn't rightly belong to him. The Soviet thugs who had come to the door for the envelope must know by now they had counterfeit goods. What if they came back and shot up the place in revenge for having been tricked? That would be Jamie's fault. Or what if they had known what he did by the time he left the house and actually followed him here. He felt his stomach take a dip and turn sour.

He was startled out of his rising panic by a voice just behind him. "You look lost, kid. Need some help?"

He jumped and spun around to see the smiling face of a man in navy slacks and a white shirt with a badge proclaiming him to be a member of the Metropolitan Fire and Rescue Squad. He was standing with another man dressed in the same uniform.

"I need to leave my bike somewhere safe."

The man nodded over his shoulder toward a woman at the reception counter inside. "Take it in with you and tell Gail. She'll let you stow it in a utility closet."

"Thank you," Jamie intoned politely with a curt nod. He walked his bike through the doorway and managed to get from Gail not only a place to put the bike, but Lee's room number as well. He fibbed a little and told her he was trying to get back to his dad's room and couldn't remember the way. She had been pleased to point him to the right elevator.

From there, finding the room didn't prove difficult. Once he got off the elevator, it was just a matter of reading the overhead signs until he located the right unit, and then making his way down the long corridor to the correct room number. He kept up a quick pace, head bent to help prevent being stopped by anyone along the way who might wonder about a kid wandering the halls alone.

He escaped notice up until he was passing the nurses' station on Lee's unit. There, he hurried past a visitor who was strolling without any apparent purpose in the same direction. The visitor was a middle aged man, with neatly clipped, thinning hair, wearing a brown suit that seemed to hang a little large on his rather spindly frame. As Jamie passed by, their eyes met, and it gave Jamie a sinking feeling deep inside. There was a shrewd glint in the man's dark eyes, like a feral cat isolating his prey, and Jamie quickly broke eye contact and walked even more quickly toward his destination. Whether he was being watched or he was being paranoid, it wouldn't matter either way once he reached the safety of Lee Stetson's room.

He chanced one quick look over his shoulder, and to his horror, the shrewd-eyed man was not only watching him, but was moving to follow him. Jamie's heart began to race and he rushed the last few feet to Lee's room. There, he made a perfunctory knock and threw open the door with only the barest pause, bolted inside, and froze. Not a soul was in the room.

The lights were on, at least. There was a bed near the window that had rumpled linens and blankets pulled back, and a tray of bland-looking food sat on the overbed table untouched, but neither Lee nor Jamie's mother was to be seen. Jamie heard footsteps behind him, and he peeked around the doorframe to see the wiry stranger making a beeline for the room with a very unfriendly look on his face.

"Hey, kid, what do you think—"

Jamie didn't wait to hear the man complete his question. Instead, he reached out and swung the door shut with all his might, and heard a single thump at the door from the other side. He appraised the closed door. No lock. Feeling himself start to tremble even though he wasn't a bit cold, Jamie spun back around to the bed, dropped his backpack off his shoulders, and shoved it as far as he could beneath the bed. Before he could stand up again, the handle of the door was turning. As the door opened wide, he did the only sensible thing he could think of. He leaped to his feet and darted forward, head bent down, butting the man in the gut while he tried to bolt past him.

The man grunted in surprise, but he held his ground and recovered much more quickly than Jamie would have expected based on the action movies he had seen. When Jamie tried again to push past him, the man grabbed hold of both his arms in a vice-like grip, holding Jamie fast right at the threshold. His panic soared to new heights and he let loose with a visceral shriek.

"What the hell?!" exclaimed a familiar voice close behind him, piercing the blind terror. "Damn it all, Banicki, that's Amanda's son you've got there! Let go of him!" Jamie registered the voice first, and then the sweet relief upon finding the terrible stranger responded readily to the command of that welcome voice. He released Jamie's arms, and Jamie twisted around to find himself looking into the glowering mad face of his step-father, who stood in the open doorway of his bathroom.

"Lee!" he cried in a rush of breath. His mother's husband was wearing flannel pajamas and a sling, with a robe hung over his shoulders and an IV pole standing at his side. His handsome features were marred by a series of abrasions down one side of his face and were currently twisted into a fierce scowl that would ordinarily be highly intimidating on such a dangerous, mysterious figure, but tonight Jamie had never seen such a comforting sight. He welcomed the arm that released the IV pole to wrap protectively around his shoulders and draw him near.

The brown-suited man brushed his hands down his suit and matched Lee's scowl. "He was snooping around in your room. I don't know him from Adam. My job is to protect you, Stetson."

"Yeah, yeah," Lee muttered. "Well, I think I've got it covered from here. Come on in, Jamie. Are you here by yourself? What's going on?" He motioned Jamie into the room before pushing the door shut and propelling the IV pole ahead of him back toward the bed. "Need something to eat, son?" He nodded toward the dinner tray.

Jamie swallowed, finding his voice. "Isn't that for you?"

"That? No, thank you. The stuff looks and tastes like sh…" He stopped himself and turned a small, crooked smile to Jamie. "Well…I guess I mean, no thanks."

Jamie smiled back. "I know what you mean. And I think I'll pass."

Lee leaned over the bedside table to plug in the IV and turned back to Jamie. "I am happy to see you, Jamie, but I think you need to sit down and tell me what you're doing here. Is everything alright at home?"

Quickly complying, Jamie sat on the edge of the bed while Lee stood with his uninjured arm folded over his arm in the sling, listening to the story Jamie faithfully recited about the strange man on the bike, the football analogy, the Soviets at the door, the phone call to Billy Melrose, and finally his determination to convey the news to his mother and Lee immediately. When he ended, he looked up at Lee's face and found him nodding thoughtfully. "I see," he finally said, quietly. Jamie wasn't sure what he was reading in that face. It wasn't approval, but it wasn't displeasure either. "So the envelope is with the KGB now." He sighed. "At least Billy's on it. Maybe we'll save the documents yet." But he sounded doubtful.

"No, no," Jamie objected excitedly. "The KGB got the envelope, but they didn't get the stuff in it."

Lee's head snapped up in alarm. "What do you mean? Don't tell me you left your grandma with an empty envelope."

"No," Jamie protested vigorously. "I just took out the stuff in there and replaced it with other stuff that seemed kind of like what I took out. I just hoped they wouldn't check it out until they got back to their…their…"

"Hideout?" Lee suggested, suppressing a grin.

"Yeah." He looked nervously up at the agent's face again, and was gratified to see no trace of disappointment, only fascinated concern.

"What _did_ you put in the envelope, Jamie?"

The boy shrugged. "Just stuff. There was a cassette tape box, so I put in one of those I had. The hard paper with the film stuff was harder, so I used a handful of camera negatives and I ripped off the back cover of my Social Studies workbook. The only other thing was a piece of paper folded in half. That was easy."

The grin on Lee's face was no longer hidden. "And where did you put the stuff you took out of the package?"

In reply, Jamie got up and fished under the bed for his backpack. He hoisted it onto the bed and opened the zippered top. "It's right here. That's why I had to find you right away. I had to get this stuff to you and Mom before the Soviets came back for it." He placed each item into his step-father's hands with delicate care. With great seriousness, his eyes met Lee's and he said, "I'm supposed to be the wide receiver."

"Yeah?" Lee replied with a wry smile. "I suppose that's what the man on the bike told you." He frowned. "He didn't give you anything else to do, did he?"

Jamie nodded, remembering the parting message. "He said to tell Mom he was sorry for all the trouble he gave you yesterday." He hesitated at the intent look he received from Lee upon uttering those words. "Does this mean you know who he is?"

Lee let out a short breath. "I know exactly who he is, Jamie," he muttered, and he turned his full attention to the contents from Jamie's backpack.

"Lee," Jamie ventured meekly, "am I…am I in trouble?"

The agent didn't immediately reply. He was inspecting each item Jamie provided him with care, paying particular attention to the stock paper sleeves with their rows of film. "Microfiche," he murmured. "Hell, there must be a dozen or more documents preserved on these." He shook his head and finally looked at Jamie and regarded him with a warm smile. "I don't know about trouble back at home, but there's just one thing I have to say to you, Jamie King."

He swallowed nervously, not sure he wanted to hear it. "What's that?"

Lee set the microfiche gently on the bed and turned to face Jamie squarely, bending down a bit to look him straight in the eye. "Touchdown," he said, and then his laughter rang out and filled the room as he fondly hugged his step-son to himself.


	15. Chapter 15

Almost Home

Chapter 15

It had been a mere seven days since Lee had last graced the bullpen with his presence, but it felt as though it had been months. He stepped off the elevator and began to trek down the corridor toward the Marine-guarded entrance of the work zone, stepping gingerly to avoid stirring up the discomfort of wounds that were still raw and a shoulder that should have been supported by a sling.

He had to forego it. Couldn't drive the Corvette with a sling on his right arm, and he had no illusions about Amanda's willingness to bring him along with her when she had left for the Q Bureau in her Wagoneer that morning. He cocked a smile and a nod at well-wishers as they passed by, thankful that none asked anything that required more than a pat answer. "Oh yes, I'm feeling just fine. Much better, thank you. Close call? You bet!"

He didn't have a chance to sneak up on Billy. His section chief saw him coming before he reached ten feet of the office and he jumped to his feet and threw open his door. "Scarecrow!" he scolded in his best paternal snarl. "You have strict orders to stay on medical leave for at least the next two weeks. Will you follow that instruction of your own volition or do I need to suspend your security clearance?"

There was a momentary hush in the bullpen, as employees curiously assessed the situation for its degree of gravity. They all resumed what they were doing without fanfare when Lee flashed a dimpled grin at Billy, wholly unperturbed. "You know I could sweet-talk Marston into letting me in, or get Amanda to create a diversion with her cookies."

"Not if I give Mrs. Marston a shoot-on-sight order."

If anything, the grin only widened. "And I've missed you too, Billy. Can I come in?"

Billy held the reproving scowl for only another beat before he turned and ushered his rogue agent into his office, taking care to keep his pleasure at the sight of him hidden from view. It might further tempt the man to keep violating his leave if Billy expressed any tacit approval. "I didn't expect to see you back here so soon. So what brings you here? And don't you dare tell me you want back on the duty roster or we really will have words." He dropped into his leather chair and leaned back.

Lee shrugged, briefly appraised the seating options around the room, and ultimately chose to remain standing. "I get stir crazy, just sitting around home, not doing anything, looking for something to pass the time…"

"Mother-in-law tell you to take a hike?"

A guilty smirk followed. "Maybe something like that." After a hesitation, Lee strode to the cushioned sofa and slowly eased his rump onto it with a grimace that made Billy clear his throat and glance away.

"Well, I guess it's just as well you stopped by, Lee. I wasn't going to give this to you until you came back, but you might as well know about it now." Billy hunted in a stack of papers on one side of his desk for one particular envelope and passed it to Lee. "Mr. Culpepper at the State Department called and wanted you to know they have an offer waiting for you, if you're still willing. This came with the mail this morning…" He trailed off and studied his agent's face. Lee looked down at the envelope in his hands. He didn't open it and he said nothing. After a long moment, he tucked it inside his jacket and smiled enigmatically at Billy.

"I'll need to think about it."

Billy reflected his smile and simply nodded. As much as he had urged Lee to move on in the past, somehow he had a feeling the Agency wouldn't soon say farewell to the legendary Scarecrow. The temptation was there for Billy to give more counsel out of his own experience, but he pushed it aside for now. A decision would have to be made soon enough, but it belonged to Lee and Amanda.

Choosing to change the subject, Billy put on his business face and said, "I assume you'd like to know about the cryptology report on the contents of Pratt's drop." Lee nodded in eager agreement and Billy continued. "Well, the documents were high level stuff, much as we suspected. What was surprising was they weren't all from the disarmament program. Several were from an Eastern Bloc intelligence network that would have been blown wide open. A number of lives were saved." He smiled. "The tapes were a series of telephone conversations between Pratt and Albertson, as well as between Albertson and a number of other people. Some of them are known KGB. Two of them are State Department. There's enough evidence on those tapes to bring charges against the two and plug every last leak Albertson left behind." Billy met Lee's gaze and he paused for a moment, both men considering in sober amazement the significance of the findings.

"And finally," Billy continued, drawing in a long breath, "we have the encrypted chronology of the entire Albertson affair. Galen Pratt was quite meticulous in providing reliable evidence that he knew Albertson was crooked from approximately six months ago. He was dropping anonymous tips to the INR since then, and purposely letting Albertson make use of him to work himself into a better position to put a stop to it. The kid's a self-appointed triple agent at the age of twenty-four. And he was never granted even junior agent status on the record."

"So he's a straight arrow. He never was a sell-out." Lee grimaced and lowered his eyes. "What's going to happen to him, Billy?"

"No one in the industry ever likes a rogue, you know that. They're less upset about the situation than they would have been, but they're not brimming with gratitude over it either." Billy shrugged. "I think it's an unspoken agreement, no one's going after him anymore. They'll leave well enough alone. Anyway, Galen's gone underground at this point. It would take a whole lot of manpower to unearth him now, and for what? Like you said, he's no threat to the West." He met Lee's gaze with grave solemnity. "But something tells me this won't be our last encounter with Galen Pratt."

"To be honest, I'd be disappointed if it was." After a moment of mutual reflection, Lee blew out a breath and pushed back up to his feet with another telltale grunt. "Thanks, Billy, for everything. Now I'm going to do you the courtesy of following orders and getting out of here before Amanda ventures down here and gives me a piece of her mind." He grinned. "I'm supposed to be 'resting.'"

Billy chuckled his appreciation. "I won't stop you. Oh, but Lee, I have one more thing to give you." He stood up and this time handed Lee a manila file folder. "I was going to give this to Amanda so she could integrate it with our new active file on Galen Pratt, but I just got to thinking, I'll let you give it to her. I think you'll find it enlightening."

"Who is it?" Lee asked, opening the front cover.

"Do you remember a CIA agent by the name of Roger Pratt? We're going back about fifteen years or so. He was lead agent on a counterintelligence team that did a lot of damage to the Soviet communication codes all along the eastern seaboard back in the 60's to early 70's."

"I remember the name from operative training. He was a model for a lot of techniques still in use. He was quite a bit ahead of his time, if I remember." Lee paused, shuffled through the file briefly. "So this goes in the Galen Pratt file." He looked up and tilted his head at Billy. "Don't tell me."

"You got it. Galen and Carolyn are his children. They spent the first half of their childhood being raised by one of the U.S.'s best. They spent the latter half under the guardianship of a turncoat."

Lee nodded thoughtfully and stood at Billy's door. "So what ended up killing Roger Pratt? Did it happen in the line of duty?"

"That's the irony," Billy answered. "He left field section after his wife died so he could be more present for the kids. Ended up behind a desk, heading a section of the CIA as an under-secretary. He had an agent under his command with a bad case of burn out and put the guy on a medical suspension pending treatment. A few days later, the guy approached him getting out of his car and shot him point blank."

Lee leaned on the door frame for a frozen moment, his eyes drawn toward the file folder he now gripped more tightly in his hands. Then, at once, he stood erect and cast a significant smile at his section chief. "See you in a couple of weeks, Billy." And with a somber tip of his head, he turned to leave.

* * *

"So here's three cars-worth of our agents making a blockade between the Soviet embassy and the two goons with the envelope, ducked behind the cars, guns drawn. Good old Boris with the envelope gets out of the Soviet car and starts screaming, 'Immunity! I have diplomatic immunity! You cannot touch me!' But you can bet the guy's sweating bullets, betting his life on that little fact. And one of our guys calls back, 'Maybe you have immunity, but that package in your hands doesn't. Now drop it right there and we'll be on our way.' It's crazy. We're poised to make an international incident over this, and then…the mobile phone rings, and it's the commander telling our guys to cease and desist, and let the package go.

"So you can imagine the shock our guys are getting over this. And the one leading the group can't stop herself. She says to the commander, mad as blazes, 'You want us to stop now? Just walk away now?' She thinks he's lost his mind, you know. But the commander just says to her, 'Listen, let them have the package and you guys get on back here, because the most valuable thing they're getting away with is a tape of the band…uh…'"

"Tears for Fears," Jamie inserted helpfully.

Lee smiled. "Right. Thanks. Anyway, that broke up the party. The Soviets had to be scratching their heads when all of a sudden the Americans went from being ready to rip them to shreds for the package to just walking away and driving off without it."

With a dubious scowl, Phillip demanded, "Is that really what happened? And Jamie's responsible for it?"

"I am absolutely serious," Lee said solemnly. "And yes, we have your own brother to thank for it." He winked at Phillip and reached over to tousle Jamie's hair. Then he leaned back against the couch cushion he was reclined on, yawned mightily, and stretched his long frame all the way down to the toes of his socks.

Dotty suppressed a smile at him and glanced at Amanda. They exchanged amused looks and Dotty declared, "All right, boys. I know Lee has kept you riveted, but it's still a school night and here it's past nine o'clock. Say good-night and get on up to bed. I'm so exhausted I'm going to be right behind you."

"Good-night, Mother," Amanda said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Lee made a move to get up, but Dotty stopped him where he was with a determined hand on his chest. "Don't you trouble yourself on my account, Lee. I'll come to you." She leaned down and kissed his cheek and rubbed it with her expertly manicured fingers. "Don't be up all hours, you two." With twinkling eyes, she drank in the sight of her daughter and new son-in-law once more before ascending the stairs.

With a soft sigh, Amanda sank onto the couch at his side, and his arm wound around her as it was wont to do whenever she sat near enough. He rested his hand on her belly, palming its smoothness. Soon enough, it would grow rounder and fuller, and give further evidence of the new course he had charted for the remainder of his years. "Feel anything yet?"

She laughed. "Not this soon. Not for another couple of months, at least." Her eyes danced at him. "But I'll be showing sooner than that. We're going to have to do something about this, you know."

"I know," he acknowledged with a groan. He shook his head and sheepishly met her gaze. "We're wimps, aren't we?"

"The time never seems to be right."

"Yeah."

"We're chicken."

He flashed his most stellar grin. "Where have I heard that before?"

She nodded, pursing her lips with determination. "Tomorrow," she vowed. "We'll tell them tomorrow, no matter what."

It was a while later, after they had retired upstairs to the room they now shared, that Lee held her flush against himself, wrapped her in his arms, and basked in a greater sensation of comfort than he had ever known. Softly, he rumbled next to her ear, "I went to see Billy today."

"I know," she murmured, her hands covering his arms in front of her, tracing circles in the hairs on the backs of them. "Shame on you."

"Culpepper still wants me on board."

Her head turned in surprise. "Another interview?"

"An offer."

"Will you take it?"

Silence followed, long enough that Amanda wondered after a while whether he was not ready to answer tonight. Or whether he was simply too tired to stay awake and talk about it any further. At last, he said, "I think the Agency is where I belong." He considered it again, and reaffirmed the thought. "I think I'll stay with the Q Bureau."

Amanda released a breath she didn't realize she was holding and smoothed the arm hairs she had mussed. Then she snuggled in a little tighter next to him, if it were possible. With as much nonchalance as she could muster, she replied, "Oh yeah? Does that mean you'll still be my partner?"

"Always," he mumbled, nibbling her earlobe for effect.

She smiled in the darkness. "You and me, together in field section? What changed your mind, Scarecrow?"

He inhaled deeply and readjusted his hold around her. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. And I think you were right."

"Can I get that on tape?"

"I'm serious, Amanda."

She giggled. "Sorry." She turned her head and shifted in his embrace to kiss him deeply. Afterward, she arched back to look in his drowsy eyes. "How was I right?"

He smiled at her, and told her the same words he had told her so many times before. "It's what I do." He kissed her once more before they both settled in to sleep. Lovemaking would have to wait for a better time, after his awkward wounds were resolved and Amanda's morning sickness was calmed and both of them wore moods that were more amorous and less exhausted. But for now, Lee could revel in the wonder of the familiar weight in his arms and the scent of her hair, of the low hum of the household furnace, and in the unseen presence of others who not only shared the building, but shared a home, a common life. And at long last, he was finding his own place in that life, his own part in that home.

* * *

The End

* * *

Acknowledgments: Many thanks to my online friends who provided me with chapter reviews, constructive criticism, and cheer-leading along the way, especially CindyDee and VesperRegina. My gratitude also goes out to those who enjoyed reading the story, which is the whole point of writing it, really. And finally, I owe a lot to my husband, the writer's widower, for giving up six months of a fulltime wife at the expense of this project. Hey, buddy, I'm baaack!


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